I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim-
Where they roll in their horror unheeded
Without knowledge or lustre or aim

H.P. Lovecraft Nemesis
~*~

The Year 1404 of the Second Age

Most of the townsfolk agreed that the house took on a peculiar atmosphere after the storm, which had been one of the most vicious ever seen in that part of Hyarrostar, the south-eastern spar of Númenor. 

The rains lashed against the tree-lined slopes with such ferocity that some feared there had been another great war in the East and the world had broken again.  The skies flashed constantly with great bouts of bluish power, closely followed by a deafening rumble across the thick grey clouds.  Many paths turned to mud, being unpaved and rough at the best of times, and along the coast the waves churned and exploded wildly against the sharp cliffs. All around the coastline the lighthouses beamed their guiding rays towards the tortured oceans, pale in comparison to the fierce display lashing across the skies.

Such a night, mused the folk of Hyarrostar, must be an omen from the Valar, and could not portend any good thing.

The house was greatly troubled by the storm, more so than the villages beneath the shelter of the lush woodland.  For the house stood on the clifftop, looking down on the more populous and fertile part of the land, and so was unprotected against the onslaught of wind and bitter water.  Tiles flew from the sloping roofs of its many turrets, smashing into dust against the paved courtyard, while the ornamental trees in the gardens bent double in the gale.  The pewter-coloured panes of the leaden windows rattled, and leaves circled endlessly inside the quadrangle, as the wind moaned and the horses kicked against the stable walls and doors. 

Through all the chaos, however, a calmer sound pervaded.  Soft, ethereal voices spread through the cold, darkened corridors and lofty halls as a small choir, brought up from the village, sang to fight away the shadows and the bleak sounds of the storm. The chief lady-in-waiting to the household stood by them, watching over them as they cooed each note.  When the lightning flashed outside, the blue glimmer caught upon the deep frown she wore and made the fine dusting of perspiration on her brow shimmer. 

Though her eyes were on the choir, her heart focussed on the bed, where her lady lay gasping for breath on sweat-soaked sheets.  Still there was no sign of the healer, nor of the Lord and his esquire sent to fetch the healer from the village.  The lady-in-waiting prayed silently that things would hold awhile until they returned, and that the gentle song might soothe the Lady Ilmarnië’s mind and body.

The midwife was already in attendance, having stayed with Ilmarnië through the night.  It was on her instructions that the healer had been sent for, since she sensed (from her many years’ experience) that all was not well, though she could not say what.  She stooped over the bed and mopped the lady’s brow with a damp cloth, before she stepped aside and wandered into a corner, out of reach of the candlelight, where she and the lady-in-waiting drifted together. 

“Her breathing seems less ragged,” whispered the midwife with a dire, village gossip tone to her voice.  “Yet the fever seems to have risen.  She is so warm to the touch, I dare not think what might be happening in the womb.”

“I sent one of the girls down to see what’s become of the master,” replied the lady-in-waiting.  “But she thought the road might be bad, with the rain and all.  How near is the child?”

“Her waters have not broken yet, but I think it shan’t be long now.  That is if she lasts through this affliction.  I tell you Auriel, I have never seen the like of it, to come on so quick and harsh.”

Auriel sighed, but her poise and dignity never flinched, the result of many years in service to the noble families of Númenor.  “Not that it is my place to say,” she went on in a hushed voice, “but I cannot help but think it is this house, and this place.  Oh, I do not mean the country, Lalaith, as I know it is your birthplace and you love it dearly.  No, the village I find so pleasant and friendly, yet this house has not the same character.  I do not claim to know the full reason why the sister of the king, the daughter of kings should wish to come here, yet I know it was no good thing that pushed her family from Armenelos.”

“In the village it is often talked about,” admitted Lalaith, “yet none know the true reason.  Sometimes I think that suits them better, for they can sit together and drink wine by the barrel while they debate why Lady Ilmarnië might be here.”

“I only know what some of the other girls heard.  Whispers only, not even rumours.  But I heard it said that the lady had a dream, a few days after she found out she was with child, and was greatly troubled by it.  In the end, so they say, she was so concerned that she grew ashen and weak, until the Lord Nairion finally decided to remove her to the country, away from the noise and gaiety of Armenelos.  There were others of their kin in these parts, the lady’s sister for one, and I suppose he felt she might be more at ease.”

“And has she been well since?”

“She has moments where the light seems to return to her eyes and the colour to her cheek, but these grow fewer and less frequent.  I cannot say if that story I told you is true, and I only tell you since I know you shall not breathe a word of it beyond this house.  I did think for a while that the pregnancy might be flawed in some way, though every care has been taken regarding the Lady’s health since she discovered the child.  Yet then you came to see her those few months ago and said that all seemed well with the baby.”

“All is well with the baby,” said the midwife.  “My concern at the moment is that the mother’s illness might change that, however.  That is why I wish the healer would put down his wine and hurry.  The longer this is left to ravage her body, the more chance there is that the child might suffer.”

Auriel, the lady-in-waiting, glanced towards the window, where the lightning cast strange shadows through the trees.  “Even with the road out, I cannot see as it should take this long for them to get here.  Still, the song seems to have calmed her a little.  Over the last few days I have found it to be the only comfort to her.  Sometimes, when her fever grips her, she calls out indecipherable things, and it is as if the song is her rope, to pull her from the clutches of darkness.”

“And what was this dream, if I may ask?  Though I cannot see how a dream might bring on an illness such as this.”

“I do not know for certain,” replied Auriel.  “Only that it concerned the child somehow. Shortly after we came here, I found the lady sitting in the atrium alone, looking extremely pale and forlorn.  I feared she might be in one of her dark moods and asked if I might bring her something.  She did not reply at first, then she said something, which I remember to this day, that I could not and do not understand.  She said, and again I know you will say nothing of this, ‘perhaps the child might not survive.  Some die, you know, in birth, even in elven children it is so’.  Well I thought she might be worried, as some ladies are when with child, and this was the cause of her grey colour and drab humour.  ‘You need not worry about that’, I told her.  ‘For I’m sure the child is safe and well, and here in the countryside there is quiet and clear air.  And the gardens have such great spaces for the little master or mistress to run around in when old enough.  And you being of royal blood, my lady, and of the Line of Elros, I am sure you would have long years together’.”

“Good words,” said the midwife.

“So I would have thought, but the Lady seemed little comforted.  Then she said the most curious thing.  She said, and I shall try to remember this exactly, ‘oh the little master will live long, of that I am certain.  Yet it is how he shall live that is a weight upon my heart’.  That was when I first had an inkling of what that dream might have contained.  Some dire thing concerning the child.  I know it was bold of me, yet before I knew what I was saying, I asked her what she had seen.  I asked her if she knew something, and all at once she turned pale.  I do not know what fate she foresaw, but from the awful expression she wore, I doubt if it was a pleasant one.”

“Well, both she and Lord Nairion are of the Line of Elros,” mused Lalaith.  “So is it not possible one or both of them might have some gift of far vision?”

“Aye, that was what I thought,” said Auriel.  “That was what I thought.”

With another weary sigh, the two women listened to the last, fading notes from the choir’s song, then in the silence that preceded the next piece of music, they both let their gaze fall upon the Lady Ilmarnië, who lay asleep yet stirring restlessly.

“I wonder though what it was that she saw,” breathed Auriel, “that could bring such a melancholy upon her.”

A commotion sounded below the window and the choir faltered slightly, distracted by the noise.  Auriel waved them to continue, then crossed to the rain-streaked panes to look down on the outer yard.  Distorted by the rain, she saw three dark shapes move across the pale flagstones; three men on horseback heading towards the gates.  A moment later she heard the deep groan as the gates opened and scraped against the stone.

“That should be Lord Nairion,” she declared, exhaling in relief.  “And I think he has the healer with him.”

“Thank the Valar,” muttered the midwife, casting one last concerned look over her charge, as Auriel hurried out to meet the returning lord.

~*~

Auriel stood in the cloisters around the central quadrangle, watching the rain beat down on the pale stones as Lord Nairion dismounted and let his groom lead the horse off to the warmth of the stables.  Behind him, the esquire had already scampered into the cloisters and to shelter, while the third figure stood huddled inside his cape, his face mostly hidden by the hood.  Still, Auriel could see that it was not the healer from the village.

Shooting the lord a look of concern, she raced out into the stinging rain and went to Nairion.

“My Lord?”

Nairion scowled for a moment.  “Ilmarnië – how is she?”

“The midwife is with her now,” replied Auriel, walking with the lord and the man-who-was-not-the-healer towards the cloisters and the stairwell leading up to the third floor and the lady’s chamber.  “She is still very hot, sir, though her breathing has slowed and she has had some sleep.  The midwife believes the child will come soon.”

“Good, then perhaps this will be over,” said Nairion, adding beneath his breath, “though I doubt it.”

“I am troubled, sir,” Auriel went on, glancing over her shoulder at the other man.  “Where is Minarwë?  I thought he would be here.  The Lady needs to be attended…”

“Have not a care, for I bring her a healer,” said Nairion.  “Though Minarwë shall not be the one to attend her.  That is the thing that delayed me.  Minarwë is dead.”

Auriel paused by the door of Ilmarnië’s room and frowned at him.  “Dead?  How?”

“That can wait.  Nolendil will tend to the Lady.”

Nairion held the door open and then stood in the threshold as the healer moved in to the bedside.  Auriel glanced inside and saw the midwife throw the same confused frown towards Nolendil, before she too moved in to aid Ilmarnië.

Moments later Nairion went further into the room, and Auriel found the door closed and herself alone in the hallway, listening to the ravages of the storm.

~*~

Just before midnight, Auriel heard the first screams as she sat in the kitchens with some of her kin, who also served the Lord Nairion.  All of them, seated around the battered wooden table in the centre of the low, steam-filled room, looked towards the ceiling and frowned.

“That will be the little master coming then,” remarked the cook, a distant cousin of Auriel’s, though the resemblance between them made most believe they were twins. 

“Just the start of it,” corrected the kitchen maid, the cook’s daughter, as she stared into her soup bowl.  “My Ehtelë was fourteen hours before arriving.”

“I doubt if the Lady would last fourteen hours,” said Cook.

“She’s strong.  She always has been,” replied Auriel.  “Whatever ill came over her lately, the blood of Tar-Minyatur flows in her and that cannot be conquered lightly.”

Another wailing cry answered her from above. 

“So why was Minarwë not with the Lord?” asked the kitchen maid.

“Oh, did I not tell you?” Cook replied, before Auriel had a chance to speak.  “He is dead.”

“Dead?” said the maid.  “How?”

“And how do you know this, Elwen?” added Auriel.  “The Lord himself told me barely moments ago.”

“Endacar, the groom told me,” replied Elwen.  “He heard the Lord and the new healer discuss it.  He and the esquire went to Minarwë’s house to fetch him and found him there.  They thought it was the lightning, though I never heard of such a thing happening indoors.  They found him sitting by the window.  Apparently they saw him as they came along the path, sitting at the window with the grimmest face upon him, and then they noticed, as they grew near, that he had not moved.  They broke the door and entered, and found him dead and cold.  They think the flash caught him through the window somehow.  Since the house was locked and no one else was inside, they cannot account for it any other way.”

“Strange business,” muttered Auriel disapprovingly.  “So who is this fellow?”

“From some village on the other side of the forest.  The Lord and esquire had to ride fast as Astaldo to get there and back again in time.”

Another scream, this time followed closely by a bellow from the thunder raging outside.

“Then let us hope the baby has that speed too,” sighed Auriel.  “For the Lady’s sake.”

~*~

With dawn came the final surcease of the storm, and the countryside lay swathed in mist and dampness, the smell of the lush vegetation thick on the air.  The sea too seemed to have quietened, and a few ships could just be seen, like distant swans upon its glassy grey waters. 

Once all the fires in the house were lit, the linen in all rooms save the lady’s changed, and preparation for breakfast begun in the Great Hall, Auriel returned to the kitchens and found Elwen tending a pot of oats that seemed big enough to feed an army, let alone the fifty or so people in the household.  Neither woman spoke, but they exchanged tired smiles that betrayed a sleepless night.

Auriel made herself a mug of hot herbal tea and sat by the table, letting the steam warm her nose and cheeks.  Until the fires had a chance to waft their heat around the place, the house felt damp and cold.  She also noticed another subtle change in the feel of the place, a strange, unsettled feel that made her anxious as she moved from room to room to do her daily checks.  Although she had lived there for several months and knew each corner by heart, she found herself taking fright at reflections and shadows that morning.  She felt – though it took her most of the morning to reach the definition – like a stranger in the house, mindful of her behaviour and manners all of a sudden and afraid to touch things lest they break. 

She put this down to frayed nerves brought on by the storm, which had been unprecedented.  Even the kitchen, though, where she passed most of her free time and where she usually expected a warm, comforting welcome, felt at odds that morning.

Just as she sat down, there came a great thumping from the upper floors, as though several people were running up and down the halls.  Auriel and Elwen both looked upwards in unison.  Another, long and ragged scream filled the air, only slightly muffled by the fabric of the house, then suddenly it ceased and all was silent.

Auriel held her breath, waiting for the next sound, since it would tell her what had happened.  There could only be two reasons, she thought, for things to go quiet.  Either the Lady had finally succumbed to her fever and the hardship of labour, or…

After what felt like a lifetime, she finally heard the crying from the rooms above, a whining, high-pitched sound that sent waves of relief washing over her.

“Thank the Valar,” muttered Elwen, throwing her cousin a beaming smile.  “That’s him here!”

~*~

Ilmarnië shuddered and lay still against the sodden pillows, her gaze fixed on the darkness of the ceiling above her.  By her side, Nairion stood and gazed over the midwife’s shoulder as she wrapped the child’s tiny body in soft blankets.

His expression, however, was hardly befitting a doting father.

“Is that…” he began, speaking quietly so his wife might not hear.  “Is that normal?  I mean, what is that…?”

“His colouring?” said Lalaith, with a glance towards the healer, Nolendil. 

“It does happen,” he answered, wiping his hands.  “I have never seen a child born like that, but I have heard it said.  Something that happens from time to time though we never know why.  He seems quite healthy to me, though.”

He tried to look earnest and convincing, but Nairion continued to stare at the child in puzzlement.  His son did seem strong enough, but his skin was as white as a corpse and the thin strands of hair on his crown seemed to shine, like the raiment of ghosts.  He wriggled and shifted his weight in Lalaith’s arms, eyes firmly closed and tiny face framed by the pale blue blankets.  Finally Nairion reached out to hold the child himself, and as the morning light caught his features he almost seemed to glow, as though he had been carved from alabaster.  Though the unsettling feeling remained, the sensation of that minute body in his arms forced Nairion to smile at last.

“Do you wish to hold him, My Lady?” asked the healer, gathering up his things.

Ilmarnië let out a groan.  “I wish to sleep,” she sighed.  “And cannot.”

“Not even for a moment?” said Nairion.

“Not now,” replied Ilmarnië.

“Perhaps a rest would be the best thing,” said Nolendil diplomatically.  “Your fever has come down, My Lady, but it has not yet passed.”

“Then you will stay in the house,” said Nairion.  “Until she is well?”

“Of course, if that is my lord’s wish.”

“Indeed it is.”

Nolendil wandered towards the door, glancing awkwardly around, like a stranger suddenly thrown into a room full of foreign folk.  He paused a while by Nairion’s shoulder and looked down at the baby with the same fixed smile he had worn all morning.

“Any thoughts as to the name, My Lord?” he asked.

“I suppose I must have some,” sighed Nairion quietly.  “For he must have a name.”

Nairion thought for a while, but found that the name came to him only when he had emptied his mind. 

“I think he shall be Marillion,” he concluded.  “For he is like pearl.  Like he was carved of it.”

“Marillion then he shall be,” muttered the healer, leaning over the child.  “And long may you have good fortune young master.”

“Aye.  And thank you again, Nolendil.”

“’Tis nothing, My Lord.  ‘Tis nothing.  Call for me if you should need anything, but I think I shall try and sleep for a while.”

The healer left and the midwife moved in to take the child.

“There we are, My Lord,” she said.  “And we’ll see that someone else has some sleep, ay young master?  For the night was hard on you too.”

“Hard on all of us,” mumbled Nairion.  “Though it is finished now.  I should hope.”

__

Notes

Astaldo – another name for the Vala Tulkas, who ‘rides no steed, for he can outrun all things that go on feet, and he is tireless’.  (Silmarillion: Valaquenta)

Marilla – Quenya, ‘pearl’, so ‘Marillion’ would be ‘pearlescent son’

And in the Darkness Bind Them

The year 1416 of the Second Age

A faint wind blew around the gardens and ruffled the carefully sculpted trees.  Their thick leaves, so dark that they almost seemed black, whispered gently and sighed as the breeze snaked through the many secret places and terraces behind the House of Ilmarnië.  The sun shone brightly, though the clouds diffused some of the crisp light and warmth, but the birds still sang in the eaves and branches. 

Marillion stood beneath a pergola, listening idly to the sounds of the gardens and to the distant chuckling of the narrow stream that wended around the outer boundaries of their lands.  His white hair shifted slightly in the breeze, but otherwise he remained immobile, his gaze fixed upon the images of his waking dreams.  Often he would pause and stare, and often his father would watch him from the high windows of the house, a sigh ever on his lips and a furrow across his brow. 

Lord Nairion, indeed, was present at his post that day, and looked down upon his son partly with love but mostly with sorrow.  He so wished there could be some way to break into that imaginary world, to coax the boy to play as he had done in his early, toddling years, yet knew that there was no way.  The strange, pallid form had hardened against the world and Nairion feared that nothing would break those barriers now.

He walked slowly downstairs, finally prizing himself from the window and his contemplation of his son’s odd ways.  The stairwell in the centre of the house was crafted of wrought iron, so fine that it might have been the work of the Noldor, yet it had been made by Nairion’s own hand, as had much of the house.  They built this place, set it down brick by brick, so that they might recover something of their happiness.  Now nearly thirteen years on, so little seemed to have changed. Ilmarnië remained remote and rarely looked upon the child, hardly ever speaking to him, save to give a curt command now and then.

“He is evil,” she said frequently, and often (to Nairion’s dismay) when Marillion was in earshot, “I have seen it.”

Nairion knew the blood of Elros ran more fervently in his wife’s veins than in his, and her foresight therefore was far stronger than the infrequent premonitions he experienced, yet he could not look upon the child and see something evil.  Yes, the boy looked strange, but besides his pale complexion and colourless eyes, he was perfectly healthy and had never displayed any distasteful qualities that Nairion could see. 

“He cannot be held accountable for actions you have seen and that have not happened yet,” Nairion had told her, when last the subject arose.  “The future is just that.  It has not come to pass.  And what would be the point of visions if we were not able to alter our lives?  Why would the Valar have granted you this insight, if they did not think it possible to change him, if indeed he be evil?”

“All things are written in the music of the world,” Ilmarnië replied.  “We cannot change it.”

“You wish to believe that, for you have set your mind to some purpose that escapes me.”

“In all our long years you have stood by me.  When I refused the throne and let my brother be king, you said you would support that choice with no regrets or resentment that you would not have power.”

“And I have kept to that oath, Ilmarnië.  I have never left your side, nor have I done anything to aggrieve you.”

“Yet you will not believe me now, when I say that the child is abhorrent?”

“How can I?  When you ask me to abandon my own son, my sole heir?  Not only that, but you will not share your vision with me, to justify this treatment of him.”

“I have no desire to relive those dreams, Nairion.  I spent too many nights in Armenelos with those images before my closed eyes.  Now his birth has finally caused them to cease, I wish some respite.”

“Then I cannot condone this,” said Nairion, walking away.  “He is my son and I love him.  If you would bring yourself to sit with him for but a moment, rather than handing him to the nurses and maids, then you might see the good in him.  Yet I fear if you keep him distant any longer, you will soon fulfil your own prophecy.  The boy grows quiet.  The light is fading in his eyes.  He barely knows that he has a mother.  Do you not remember, when he was a babe, and only just learned to crawl and speak, how he asked why his mother would not love him?  Did that stir nothing within you?”

“Of course it did,” replied Ilmarnië, unflinching.  “Do you not think I want to love him?  I know he is my child and should have a place in my arms, but I cannot look at him without seeing those hideous things…”

“What hideous things?” cried Nairion.  “What could be so foul that it would strangle your love for your own son?”

“Evil, Nairion,” whispered Ilmarnië.  “Evil as you or I have never seen.”

Nairion had sighed, the breath seeming to come from the pit of his stomach, heavy with frustration and weariness.  “So you will not yield, and spend some time with him in the gardens, perhaps?  Then I know not what to do.  If I cannot change your mind, then I suppose it will be my duty to see that your vision does not come into being.  I only hope it is not too late.”

After that exchange, however, Nairion began to believe that it was indeed too late.  He often walked with his son around the gardens, teaching him the lore of plants and animals, as his father had done centuries before.  Yet as the days passed and the child grew, Nairion saw fewer smiles pass over Marillion’s lips.  The boy withdrew within himself, hiding in a fog of dreams and secret thoughts.  He often wrote in his room, or sketched, but no longer allowed his father to see his work and hid it away so that even the servants could not look upon it when they cleaned the room.  Soon, despite himself, Nairion found himself looking into his son’s pinkish-grey eyes, where there was nothing but cold darkness, and he too felt afraid.

So once again, Nairion found himself wandering the halls alone, his mind dwelling on the lonely figure in the gardens, with no idea how he might resolve things. 

That day he found his wife seated in one of the airy rooms at the front of the house, though he did not go into the room to join her.  He merely paused at the threshold and gazed dolefully inside, watching Ilmarnië as she read an old, grass-coloured book.  Never before had he questioned his wife’s decision to refuse the sceptre, and certainly he never resented losing his chance to be Queen’s Consort, but he found himself wondering how different things might have been if they had stayed in Númenor, and if Ilmarnië had regal duties to distract her.

Though what could he do?  He stood and thought a while, before wandering off again, fidgeting as was his habit, with his hands clasped behind his back. 

Who was he to argue with the daughter of kings?

~*~

Marillion waited a while longer by the pergola, until his trail of thought ended and, with a deep breath, he realised how long he had been standing there.  Best to move, he thought, or else his father might come down, concerned, and try to fathom what was wrong with him. 

Was it a crime in Númenor to be content with one’s own company? 

He made his way through the labyrinth of hedges and trailing flowers, heading as deep into the garden as he was able, until he knew he was out of sight of the house and could lose himself in the greenery.

Around the boundary stream, the plants grew wild and free, willows and other drooping trees hanging over the shallow waters, with grander, elven trees on the opposite bank, where a threadbare patch of woodland spread across the clifftop.   A few frogs burped, hidden somewhere amongst the water-weeds and several magpies hopped around on the grass nearby.  Marillion sat on a rock, looking down at the trickling water, and secretly observed the other creatures, wondering if he frightened them.  The magpies at least seemed to ignore him, but the frogs did pause for a moment in their ragged calls.

For a second he thought about killing them.  In that moment the world seemed to stop and he became the only being in existence, his heartbeat and pulse the only sound and sensation.  The thought seemed to bring his brain to a complete halt and he sat motionless until the idea passed.  Strange how contemplating violence could bring on such exhilaration. 

The idea, however, was nothing more than a tantalising whisper in his mind.  He would never actualise it. 

But would his mother not be proud of him, if he did present her with some murdered thing?  Would she not laugh aloud and shout that she was right?  She wanted him to catch those chubby birds, take their black-feathered necks and snap the brittle bones because then she would have proof.  Proof that he was the vessel of evil she had always believed him to be.

So that was why he did not do it.

Marillion knew how greatly it frustrated his mother that he behaved normally.  He had no real friends in the village, as his mother tried to limit his interaction with other children, but he knew their parents spent most of their time trying to force good conduct from them.  He wondered what that would be like, to be rewarded for doing something well, rather than being regarded with suspicion, as though beneath the fine drawing he brought to show them, his parents imagined a sharpened dagger.

Did she think he could not see it?  Did his mother really believe that she could hide her fears, and that he had not grown up knowing exactly what she thought of him, how abhorrent and loathsome she considered him?

He was not sure when he had learned his mother’s true feelings.  He remembered little of his early childhood, save a few brief mental images of toys he was once fond of.  But he had known nothing else for four, perhaps five years.  All day long she waited, watching, for some sign that his hideous soul was ready to flare into action. 

It would be easy to let her have her wish, he thought, and threw a stone at the stream, watching it disappear into the murk of swirling mud its impact threw up.  He knew a thousand evil things he could do, like smashing every window in the house, or slashing every painting in the great hall, or pounding the heads of the statues, particularly the one of Elros, whom he was told he resembled in face if not in complexion. 

But there were subtler ways of reaping his revenge.  For the time being, behaving in a civilised manner seemed to work.  It irked his mother immensely and gained him the trust of his father.  If his mother really wanted him to be strike, he thought, then he would, one day.  But it would be on his terms, and in a manner befitting him.

Marillion’s only problem was that he did not know yet what ‘his manner’ was.

Yet he was sure that he would find out soon enough. Changes were coming.  He felt it all around him; a feeling that stirred in his breast like a sleeping cat that stretched its muscles for a second but had not quite awoken just yet.

Whatever foul thing his mother foresaw, it was about to start.

~*~

Nairion hit upon the answer in the same moment as he hit a rabbit square in the breast.  The arrow flew surprisingly true, despite the brisk wind and interfering greenery, and all in the hunting party applauded the lord’s effort.  Nairion too lost the flow of the conversation, shocked by his own skill, which was usually nondescript, but then as his esquire hurried off to gather up the spoils, Nairion turned again to his companion.

“I am sorry, Ilinwë, what was that you said?”

“About your boy?” said Ilinwë.  “Oh, I meant no offence my lord.  I only mentioned the place since my son writes so highly about it.  Seems to be enjoying himself immensely.”

“Where did you hear about it?”

“At first?  From my wife, as it happens.  How strong is the chain of news in this part of Númenor?  She tells me she was in conference with some of the other women and heard of a lord who had come from Armenelos and built himself a castle somewhere near the northern borders.  On the coast, I believe.  According to her friends, the man kept himself hidden from all others for years, but in these last few months he decided that his son, who happens to be of the same age as my son and yours, Nairion, was unhappy spending his life alone in the castle.  Though he would never see the boy leave, the lord decided that, since he was a scholar, the solution would be to invite other children of similar age to join his son and study with him.  I know of four now who have gone.  Of course I went myself to look upon this ‘castle’, though I must say it is less of a castle and more of a house, and it seemed fine enough.  The lord, too – Herilmar is his name – is a fine and noble-born man.  My son has spent a month there now and seemed content enough when he visited us for a day.  Of course he will return to us in a few months for a longer time.  I only thought of your boy as you said how miserable he had been of late.”

“It is a thought,” mused Nairion.  “Though I do not like the idea of sending him away.  Still, it might do Ilmarnië well to…” He stifled the words ‘to get rid of him’ and said instead, “…to have some time to rest, with no distractions.  And he need not be away for too long.  Perhaps a month or so.”

“Herilmar does not mind how long the children stay, and he asks little in the form of payment for his tutelage.”

Nairion’s heart had been convinced at once, but his reason still resisted a little.  “I shall have to speak with Ilmarnië,” he concluded at last.  “And with Marillion, of course.  For it is his life we are dabbling with.”

Within the hour, a letter had been written to Herilmar, and Marillion began to pack his things.

And in the Darkness Bind Them

Nairion pulled the black fur collar of his son’s coat and fastened the sliver hook into its loop, then stepped back to inspect Marillion’s appearance.  Marillion stared back at him, unimpressed and unemotional.  The black coat reached from his chin to his ankles and covered all save his riding boots, making him resemble a sleeping bat as it dropped from his narrow shoulders.  His hair had been swept back and tied neatly, topped with a black felt hat, which only emphasised his pallor all the more.

Nairion fumbled with the coat once again, checking each button was in place, until he heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard beyond the cloisters.  He glanced sadly over his shoulder and saw their horses waiting but did not go to them.  Instead he stood looking around, avoiding his son’s gaze while he wiped the beginnings of a tear from his eye.

“The horses, father,” said Marillion, sounding very dire and solemn. 

“Yes,” sighed Lord Nairion.  “I suppose we must.”

Marillion did not ask why his mother would not ride with them, or why she had not come down to bid them farewell.  He already knew the answers in his heart and did not allow himself to feel sadness.  There was no point pleading for affection from Ilmarnië, when she had shown herself incapable.  He learned that as a child.  No point in grieving then, he mused, since nothing could be done to change things.

As he mounted the grey gelding brought for him, however, Marillion happened to glance towards the ornate windows of the upper storey he saw Ilmarnië’s face, indistinct as a reflection on moving water, looking down on them.  He stared back, holding her gaze for a moment before he turned disinterestedly away and coaxed his horse to walk.

He felt no regrets as he passed through the heavy gates, then heard them scrape across the stone and clang shut with great finality behind him, though he did find it strange to leave the house and come out into the freshness of the countryside.  He imagined it must feel the same to be released from a dungeon after many years, to know nothing of the world save a few eavesdropped rumours.  The idea of entering a new world with new acquaintances intrigued him, yet his heart was too hardened against life to feel excited.

His father rode alongside, staying quiet for most of the journey with guilt spread liberally over his face.  Marillion despaired at his father at times.  Nairion was by no means stupid and was a formidable ally to him in secret.  When they spoke together Marillion could express a little the anguish he felt at his mother’s treatment, and he believed his father gave him some sympathy.  Nairion always listened carefully and often agreed with Marillion’s grievances, but the comradeship never lasted.  As soon as Nairion found himself in Ilmarnië’s presence again, he became a fawning courtier, unable to resist her commands.  If only his spine was a little stronger, Marillion mused, he might have been a great man.  As great as Ilmarnië, perhaps.

That woman.  If she had not been so proud and principled, they might be the highest lords of Númenor, and he would be heir to the kingdom, instead of an embarrassing chattel to be hidden away in some forgotten backwater of Hyarrostar.  Nairion might not have had the stomach for power, and Ilmarnië might have not have wished the responsibility of leadership, but Marillion knew he could have been great if only she had not robbed him of his chance.

The woods soon surrounded them, thick and fragrant, full of elvish trees brought from Tol Eressëa.  They followed a well-worn road and Nairion sang quietly beneath his breath, while Marillion watched the world drift by him, remarking small and insignificant things rather than the greater picture.  It did not overwhelm him to be heading so far from home, but he found himself almost smiling as he spotted a new kind of flower, or a flock of scarlet kirinki birds, hundreds strong, perched along the branches of a tree as though they had been carved there.  He did not think about his destination.  In fact he blocked it from his mind.  He had learned not to look forward to things, for that was when disappointment could strike hardest.

They soon quickened their pace, however, once they were far from the house, as a journey of just under a hundred miles lay before them.  Though Nairion promised a brief rest in one of the small woodland villages along the way, it would still be an arduous trip.  Marillion enjoyed riding, though; feeling the horse’s muscles move beneath him and watching the trees and bushes whip past him.  His head always felt clearest when he was on horseback and the smell of the laundered forest let his thoughts run wild into imaginary countries where it did not matter if his parents no longer wanted him.

Most times he pictured what he might become when he attained adulthood, a goal that seemed tantalisingly clear and yet frustratingly distant at the same time.  He roamed off in fantasies, where he would be the best or the fastest or the strongest.  He imagined a beautiful lady, noble and serene, whose qualities altered as his life progressed so that she was always the ideal, no matter what he felt at the time.  He did not know her name, and did not invent one for her.  Some children he knew in the village had friends that did not exist and each had a name.  He did not want her to be considered the same.  Not that he had ever shared her with anyone else.  At that moment he imagined she rode beside him, ready to face the perils of Lord Herilmar’s castle with him.

They stayed that night in a village inn, though to Marillion’s eyes, there was not quite enough of the place for it to be called a village.  Besides the inn there were only three other houses, belonging to merchants who craved the quiet of the countryside.  Still, sitting in the parlour of the inn, Marillion felt enveloped in the fog of noise and voices.  The people chatted idly about nothing, laughing and singing at times, while he and his father sat quietly in a corner.  The milk Marillion was served turned out to be strange indeed, (in fact he was not entirely sure which animal it might have come from), but he enjoyed it - the first drink he had taken as a ‘free man’.

He slept in a small, creaky bed with the stars and a waning moon beaming at him through the open window, while his father snored rhythmically.  Yet it took him several hours before he could close his eyes and ignore all the intriguing, foreign sounds coming from the floors below.

The next morning they rode off in slightly better spirits, knowing that the greater part of the journey was already behind them.  The road took them north east, towards the tip of Hyarrostar and into yet another clump of forest.  The trees in that country, however, stood closer together, shutting out much of the daylight and casting dense shadows that seemed to move and flicker as the riders passed.  The landscape took on an altogether more oppressive feel almost as soon as they entered that stretch of wood, and Marillion found his senses twitching not just at the alien sounds, but at the darkness in the undergrowth, where he imagined a dozen eyes secretly observed their progress. 

Eventually the trees knitted above the road to form a corridor, but as the two riders turned a sharp corner, following the earthen path, the first shards of bright sunlight appeared ahead.  It may have been Marillion’s imagination, for he had been lost in thought for some time, but the world seemed to fall suddenly quiet as they started along that last stretch.  The feeling of oppression grew more intense, so that he felt he ought to race ahead and reach that sunlight before the creatures of darkness had time to gather their forces and pursue.  Once or twice he glanced over his shoulder at the writhing shadows they left behind and thought he saw a shift of movement.  Once he felt certain he saw the sunlight reflect on a pair of lustrous eyes, which instantly vanished.

Yet the world did not suddenly return to normal once they rode clear of the woods.

The path carried on beyond the trees and brought them to a set of twisted iron gates, whose strange inosculations, though forming no real pattern, seemed to suggest moving creatures, birds and writhing snakes.  Dead vines grew around the iron, brown and yellow with age, and the stone posts bore a heavy dusting of green and white lichen.  The gates themselves, however, lay open. 

Beyond, they came into a set of gardens that might once have seemed grand, but their splendour had given way to entropy.  The once fine trees stood ragged and threadbare, the flowers dead.  Weeds grew rampantly through the cracks in the paving slabs leading off to the hidden terraces, and strangled the ornamental beds, turning everything brown and grey.  No birds sang and no fine fragrances hung on the air.  Instead an odour of damp and compost hung thickly about the place, carried on the fine swirls of mist moving around the forlorn statuary. 

Up ahead lay the castle itself, and at once Nairion and Marillion could see what Ilinwë meant when he said it was ‘more a house’.  The core of the building seemed to be ancient, built of grey stone whose corners had softened in the rain and whose windows were narrow as swords.  Yet an eclectic group of turrets and squat extensions hugged the central structure, showing the history of Númenorean architecture from the early days of Elros to the intricate elven revivalist styles of Aldarion’s reign four centuries ago.  Though the windows in the newer parts had glass, they were dark and impenetrable as silver, and even the most modern sections of the house wore a thick coat of ivy and an aura of neglect.

This, then, was the House of Herilmar.

Marillion sneered as he gazed up at it, hardly able to imagine himself comfortable within its walls.  Yet somehow it prompted not only disdain, but also a faint fascination.  Its awkward angles and haphazard walls seemed to trick the eye into seeing movement around its eaves and balustrades.  The windows seemed to him like lidded eyes, the once-grand doorway like a puckered mouth, so that the house resembled the dismembered head of some great stone troll, lolling to one side and ready to decay.  Strange and uninviting though it was, Marillion instinctively went nearer, compelled by a morbid interest.

Nairion seemed less impressed and frowned at the place.  “I shall have to speak to Ilinwë,” he muttered.  “The man said he came here and saw the place.”

What if there is no one here? whispered a voice in Marillion’s mind.

“I suppose it would be foolish to go back,” Nairion concluded at last, heading towards the house again.  “Even if the house is as foul inside as out, we should have a look before heading home.”

Said the hushed voice, This is home.

They followed the cracked paving to a wide forecourt of packed earth.  Whether it had once been paved was uncertain, but a few broken stones poked through the dirt amongst the prevalent weeds.  A flight of white stone steps, worn in the centre, led up to a shallow porch and a wooden door with rusted iron studs and bars.  Around the lintel Daeron’s runes were carved, declaring ‘Here be the House of Herilmar’, and beneath a curious phrase which Marillion read as Quenya; Rúcima Norë Sin.  This he thought might be ‘Fearful is this place’, but wondered what sort of host might want this written over his door.

For a long time they sat immobile, as though gathering the courage to dismount and venture forward, when with a sudden groan, the door opened. 

Marillion sat in the saddle, transfixed, as he waited to see what sort of creature might emerge.  Yet the man who stepped out onto the porch seemed the most ordinary figure, dressed in a plain grey tunic and long blue coat, with mud-stained leather boots and sagging trousers.  Limp black hair hung around his narrow face, reaching to his chin, and he gave the two newcomers a slightly sneering glance before coming down to meet them.

“Lord Nairion,” he called.  “Master Marillion.  Lord Herilmar bids you welcome.”

“You are not he?” asked Nairion.

“Nay, My Lord, I am but his servant,” replied the man, with a distinctly bitter edge to his words.  “Pray, go inside and I will tend to your horses.”

“You have stables here?” said Nairion.

“There are, though Lord Herilmar has no horse of his own.  He does not leave the castle and therefore has no need.  Nor have I had the chance to find one for myself, such are my duties here.”

“Are you alone here?” asked Nairion as he dismounted.

“Sometimes it seems so, My Lord,” replied the servant.  “But in fact there is a maidservant too.”

“There must be much work in a place like this, for two people alone.”

“Yes,” sighed the servant.  “There is.”

Suddenly it did not seem so strange to Marillion that the house was in such a state of decay.

They climbed the steps and went through the open door into a small reception hall, hexagonal in shape, with an archway straight ahead through which Marillion could make out a larger room.  Columns of stone stood at each corner, each with carven designs that, from some angles, seemed to have a hidden meaning.  Nairion came to his son’s side for a moment, patting him on the shoulder, then both moved through the arch.

The room beyond was ten times the size of the entrance hall, and its shape was impossible to discern.  A great sweeping staircase rose up ahead of them and clusters of furniture sat huddled in the other corners, forming little rooms within the bigger hall.  Here though was the first proper sign of life.  Candles burned in gilt stands all around, filling the place with glittering light that caught the dusty glass of several tall mirrors on the walls.  Brightest of all was a great chandelier suspended on a black iron chain from the ceiling.

As Marillion stared upwards at the ring of lights, he felt suddenly dwarfed by the place.  Its vaulted grey ceilings with their spiny ribs and bosses carved to resemble distorted, unidentifiable creatures seemed ready to drop down on him like a massive net.  The few narrow windows the room possessed were set high in the walls, allowing only a few shards of natural daylight to fall upon the floor, thus creating yet more shadow-plays in the darker corners.

Nairion sighed, clapping his hands to get a little warmth back into them.

“Well,” he said.  “This is not so bad.”  He gave Marillion a hopeful and encouraging look, but was unable to hold the expression for long.

Behind them there came a groan and resounding clatter as the outer door closed, then Lord Herilmar’s manservant strode through, sidled between Nairion and Marillion, and headed upstairs. 

“Pleasant fellow,” muttered Nairon.

“My Lord Nairion,” bellowed a deep, gravelly voice from the top of the stairs.  “At last, you have arrived.”

Lord Herilmar stepped theatrically into the candlelight as he crossed the upper landing and descended the final set of steps.  Marillion almost smiled at his appearance, which seemed so congruous to his surroundings.  Herilmar stood tall and noble as a Lord of Númenor should, yet his shoulders were hunched, his spine slightly curved, making him appear broader and shorter than he actually was.  He wore a heavy mantle of charcoal grey with a bristling trim of fur, upon which his long, thick pewter-coloured hair splayed out.  He took each step with intricate care, as though his bones could not handle sudden movement, and though he smiled at them, the expression was hollow.  His fine-boned face was the colour of wood ash, with an aquiline nose, narrow, dark eyes and a brow deeply lined with cares.  Marillion stood fascinated by this creature, watching him approach and wondering how something so noble could have fallen into such decrepitude.

“My Lord Herilmar,” Nairion greeted him with a courteous bow.  “My thanks for your kind welcome and for having us in your house, sir.  You cannot know how this gesture might benefit us.  We are indebted to you.”

“Indeed,” muttered Herilmar, his eyes, like beads of jet, fixed solely on Marillion.  “But we need not talk of debt or bargains now.  I presume Lord Ilinwë has told you the arrangements I prefer.”

“I shall bring the goods you ask when I return to fetch Marillion,” said Nairion.

“Then all is settled, as I said.  Now, boy, to find you space in our dormitory.”  Herilmar clapped his hands loudly and his servant appeared on the stairs.  “You will see the young master to his room, Nadroth.”

The servant, Nadroth, bowed and gestured to Marillion to follow him,

“You will set him to study right away?” asked Nairion.

“I find it better to make only a brief farewell, so that the children can put their fullest attention into their new regime.  It may seem harsh, Lord Nairion, yet it has worked in the past.  Besides, as you can see, the castle is in a state of disrepair at the moment and I have no rooms that would be suitable for you.  Though there is a comfortable inn a short ride from here.”

“Yes,” sighed Nairion, looking crestfallen.  “We stayed there last night.”

“Good, then I trust you find it agreeable.”

Nairion stared for a moment, his mouth open to protest, but he failed to produce any words.  Finally with an air of resignation he turned to his son.

“Well then,” he said quietly.  “It would seem we must say goodbye.  But I shall be no more than a moment away as you know.  Should anything prove unbearable, or should you long for home, all you need do is call.”

“I shall endure, father,” replied Marillion, secretly glad of Herilmar’s stipulations.  He had no need of a tearful farewell, especially since he had forgotten how to shed tears a long time ago.  He offered his father one last bow, then, aiming a critical glower at Herilmar, he walked confidently towards the stairs.

“Trust me, Lord Nairion,” said Herilmar, as Nairion watched his son disappear.  “I shall have every care for his welfare.  Do not let this ailing building deceive you.  Those rooms I use for my students are well kept and clean, and though Nadroth may appear sullen at times, he too concerns himself deeply for the safety of our young charges.  He keeps a close eye upon them, ensuring none of them go near the more fragile parts of the house, until it is mended.  Oh the boys christened him ‘Nadroth’, the ‘trail left behind’.  They think him a little slow, you see.  His real name is Zimramagân and his birth is respectable, if ignoble.”

“I do not doubt the character of your household, Lord Herilmar, nor would I wish to insult you or your hospitality.”

“You have committed no offence, my Lord.  I see in your eyes the same concern that any man would have, leaving his only heir in the hands of strangers.  Be assured, your son shall prosper here.”

“His academic standards are high,” Nairion explained.  “He reads fluently and writes too.  I think we have a loremaster in the making.  He also has an eye for art, and did paint and sketch when he was young.  He still does, I believe, though he no longer shows us his work.”

“Whatever skills he possesses, Lord Nairion, we shall discover and nurture them.”

~*~

At the top of the stairs, Marillion followed Nadroth’s long shadow as the taller man strode through dusty corridors lit by dribbling candles.  Painted panels, once fine but faded with neglect, showed the history of the world from its creation to the Edain ships en route to Númenor beneath the light of Eärendil’s star.  Somehow Marillion suspected this part of the house had been built soon after that. 

They passed many junctions and Marillion saw endless other passages stretching off into the darkness, the awkward angles making it impossible to see their ends.  It disturbed him slightly to find no sign of these ‘other boys’ with whom he would share the next few months, but he imagined there were many places to hide in a house such as this.

Nadroth said nothing and emanated an aura of dislike as he led the way.  By the time they left the older part of the house and stepped into what seemed to be a fairly modern wing, Marillion was sure the sentiment would be mutual. 

Letting his thoughts wander over every part of the house, Marillion glanced down each new hallway, looking at the rows of closed doors, hopeful that eventually they would come to his room. 

Then suddenly he stopped, as a long, chilling scream cut through the eerie silence of the place. 

Marillion gasped and held his breath for a long time after the painful cry had ceased, his brain not altogether certain if it had been real or imagined.

“What was that?” he asked.

Nadroth turned and gave a disparaging look.  “None of your concern,” he replied curtly, then drifted wraith-like to a door at the end of the hall.  “This is the dormitory.  You should find it quiet at the moment, as the others are all in the quadrangle with their swords.  Some time to contemplate, perhaps.”

He opened the door and its hinges squealed.  Marillion’s attention still lingered in that empty hall, where he had heard the scream.

“But that cry…” he went on.

“Is nothing that need bother you, young master.  If you are to learn anything whilst you are here, then you had best learn first when to attend to your own affairs.”

Marillion thought of arguing, but saw the implacable expression carved on Nadroth’s dull face and decided against it. He stepped gingerly into his new home, clutching at the leather bag containing all his possessions, and felt the wash of air as Nadroth slammed the door shut behind him.

Suddenly alone, Marillion stood for a long while, taking in every detail of the room.  Its polygonal floor was tiled in many different shades of marble, forming a pattern that drew the eye into its centre.  At each corner around the many-sided room, there stood a stocky pillar of stone, made of crude blocks with no decoration save at the feet, where sculpted leaves lay over the masonry.  To Marillion, the leaves seemed like fins and gave the pillar the appearance of some rearing sea monster that had fossilised just as it was about to strike.  There were seven beds, fairly plain but comfortable-looking, though only five seemed to have been disturbed.  The others lay beneath a counterpane of dust, or had become storage shelves for books and bags.

He was glad, however, of one feature in that room.  Directly opposite him as he stood by the door were three tall lancet windows with panes of clear glass that allowed a steady stream of daylight and air into the place.  He could just make out the tops of trees beyond and crossed over to look out upon the gardens. 

At first he saw only the same desolation that had greeted him as he arrived; leafless trees, broken garden furnishings and ponds of stagnant water.  Then in the centre of it all he saw a snatch of green.

Pressing his fingers and face against the glass, Marillion peered down at that small, isolated square where life prevailed.  The plants there bloomed, the flowers bright and thriving.  No weeds grew and nothing seemed dead, though it was as if an invisible fence bounded that area from the rest of the garden, so straight and dramatic was the change from living to dead. 

In the centre of it all he saw a figure move and stared until he could make out that it was a woman.  Her hair was in a thick braid and was the colour of ebony, her frame broad and muscular yet not uncomely.  With her strong hands she tended the earth around the roots of a flowering shrub, her fingers teasing the soil.  Finally she turned, as if she sensed the watcher at the window, and looked over her shoulder with a smile that was as bright as the gleaming essence of life all around her. 

Marillion shied away from the window at once, embarrassed that she spotted him and caught him watching, though he knew he had done nothing wrong. 

What was such a fine woman doing in a place like this? he thought.  With one smile she had enthralled him, yet not in lust or adult longing.  She had glanced at him the way he had seen mothers look upon their sons in the village.  The way he often wished his mother would regard him…

Spurred on by curiosity, and by an uncontrollable desire to see that parental gleam again, Marillion edged back to the window.

Strangely, however, when he looked down on the gardens a second time, he saw only the dead, withering plants.

__

Notes

Nadroth – Adunaic, meaning ‘the trail left behind a ship, or its wake’.

And in the Darkness Bind Them

A/N – just as a warning, this chapter involves the death of an animal and a fairly gross moment towards the end.

Marillion sat for a long while in the empty dormitory.  Perched on the edge of the least filthy of the unoccupied beds, he clasped his hands and gazed at nothing, while his mind tried to fathom life so far.  His thoughts revolved for a long time around the figure in the gardens.  Had he seen a vision of Yavanna, somehow drawn to this forsaken place?  Hardly likely, he concluded.  Though there was certainly some strange and peculiar aura around the House of Herilmar.  The feeling tickled the edges of Marillion’s senses, as though he ought to know what it meant. 

The place was so unnaturally still.  Even though his parents’ house stood on a rather desolate cliff above the woods, there had always been servants moving around, a constant buzz of occupation that Marillion could sense all around him, in the walls and fixtures.  Yet here there was nothing but utter silence.  For the first time since his arrival, Marillion felt a shiver of fear ripple through him and he found himself wishing his father had stayed.

What manner of place had he landed in? he mused, watching distant birds speckle the clouds through the window.  What Lord of Númenor would not have a steed?  And why would he allow the use of swords within his halls, since such weapons were not wielded save in ceremony? 

Finally, with a deep sigh, he pulled some of his things out of his bag and spread them across the bed he had adopted.  The idea of sharing a room with four or five other boys did not appeal to him at all.  He preferred a space of his own, to hide from other people when they became too much to bear.  What would happen, he thought, if these children took an instant dislike to him, the way most of the villagers had?  He would be trapped with them.  He felt sure he would not like them. 

His heart leapt in fright when at last the door creaked open and his fellow students flooded in with a sudden burst of noise and movement.  Marillion leapt to his feet, pushing back his shoulders as proudly as he could, making himself as stern as possible as he faced the band of teenage boys bustling in. 

Four of them came into the chamber and stood in a line in front of Marillion, their faces all in various stages of surprise at finding the new arrival.  They seemed to form pairs; two tall and slender boys beside two slightly shorter, stockier ones.  All were dark, though the tallest of them all, a bony, narrow figure with piercing blue-grey eyes that seemed keen as one of Manwë’s eagles, had a slighter ruddier complexion and a reddish tint to his shoulder-length hair.  Marillion steeled himself, ready to face any ridicule or suspicion, yet the boys moved off after a moment, spreading out to go to their respective bunks. 

One of the chunkier boys approached him finally, hands buried in the copious sleeves of his emerald coat. 

“Are you new?” he asked, large grey eyes trained on Marillion.

“No, Nillë, he grew in the garden,” sneered the boy with reddish hair, unbuckling his scabbard from his belt, before he laid it reverently down upon his bed.  So they did practice with swords, thought Marillion.

The small boy, Nillë, threw a pout towards his comrade, then skulked over to his bed, which turned out to be the one beside Marillion’s, and continued to observe the newcomer with undisguised fascination.  Marillion shuffled, debating whether to converse with them or wait until he could better judge their mood.

“I am Nillë,” said the small boy finally. 

“Pleased to meet you Nillë,” mocked the redhead, turning to the others for approval and laughter.

“Leave him be, Olwen,” chided the other taller boy, striding forward.  “Ignore their sad attempts at humour.  I am Meldir Ilinwion.  He is Olwen, son of Carnimir, and his tongue is poisonous to everyone…”

“Only to Nillë,” protested Olwen, “and he does not mind, do you Nillince?”

“But,” continued Meldir, “he is the brightest scholar amongst us, and so it does well to keep in his favour.”

“And why should I help you?” laughed Olwen.  “Learn to conjugate your own Quenya!”

“Nillë you have already met,” Meldir went on, ignoring Olwen.  “And this is Rúnyaquar, son of Ehtyar.  Believe nothing he says.  He is a born liar.”

“And how am I a liar?” shouted Rúnyaquar, looking hurt.

“We are all the sons of Lords and great men,” laughed Olwen, “but do not let that frighten you.  We do not let our status cloud our vision.”

“I shall not let it frighten me,” replied Marillion.  “I am Marillion, son of Nairion and of Ilmarnië.  I am nephew to Tar-Súrion.”  He flashed a wry smile towards Nillë, who stared back, awe-struck.  “But I do not let my lineage cloud my vision.”

Meldir held his gaze for a long time, then his features softened and he laughed, sweeping down into a theatrical bow.  “Then we beg your indulgence, my lord, or is it ‘my prince’?”

Marillion smiled, unsure if he was still being mocked, but ready to relax a little.  “There are only four of you,” he said.  “I thought there would be five others?”

“So did we,” muttered Olwen.

“We were told we would have another here,” Meldir explained.  “Lord Herilmar’s son, Hermald.  Yet we have seen him…I should say…perhaps once since we arrived.”

“But I was told the very purpose of our being here was to provide Lord Herilmar’s son with some companionship?” asked Marillion.

Meldir shrugged.  “So was I.  But I have never spoken to him.  And when I saw him it was from far off.  He looked like the sort of person who would need his father to make friends for him.”

“Well, he will not make friends if he stays hidden in his room,” said Nillë, pulling out a bag of boiled sugar sweets, which he offered around.

“I heard Nadroth say the boy had died,” announced Rúnyaquar.  “And Lord Herilmar will not have him embalmed.  He has the body still in its room, and treasures it like it breathed still, though it rots and no longer has its head attached to its body.”

“As I said,” sighed Meldir.  “A born liar.”

“It is what I heard!” protested Rúnyaquar.

“And I am really King Ereinion of the Elves in disguise!” laughed Olwen.

“But whatever the reason,” Meldir went on, “and I do not believe he is dead and rotting somewhere… it would seem that we four will be your only companions so long as you stay here.  So let us hope that like us.”

“I see no reason why I should not,” Marillion admitted, and secretly breathed a sigh of relief.  The group seemed agreeable enough, and not at all childish like the boys he had met in the village.  Though everything still felt strange, he imagined he might survive here.  Perhaps for the first time he would have genuine friends.

“Have you left your home before?” asked Meldir.

Marillion shook his head.  “Never.  Yet when I was at home, I was alone most times.  There is nothing I shall miss.”

“Nillë still keeps a blanket his mother made him,” laughed Olwen.  “He hugs it every night to get to sleep because he misses her so!”

“I do no such thing!” shrieked Nillë, at the same time stuffing something that looked very like a homemade blanket beneath his pillow.

“My mother drinks wine every night until she cannot stand, and must be carried to bed,” said Meldir.  “That is why I am here.  My father thinks I see nothing, but I have seen her sprawled across the floor, unable to speak.  I might miss my father, if only he would not stand by and watch her disgrace herself.”

“My father said I was lazy,” added Olwen.  “That I might be a fine scholar, perhaps advise the court one day, if only I would stop allowing my brothers to lead me into trouble.  I find that slightly insulting, that he believes me so weak-willed.  Any trouble I have ever caused has been entirely my own doing.”

“When he says ‘lazy’,” Meldir interrupted, “he means he only read from dawn until dusk back then, not through the night as he does now.  He is kin to none but books.”

“My mother and father died at sea,” said Rúnyaquar.  “I became the ward of a distant uncle, yet he had no love for me, and so sent me here.”

“Well that is strange,” Olwen cut in, “because last week you told Nillë that your father was the king’s chief clerk for the harbours.”

“You did,” agreed Nillë.  “You said he planned all new ships that were to be built and organised the labour.”

“I did not,” snapped Rúnyaquar.

“You did.  You said he was going to find you work as the captain of a ship once you were old enough!”

“If you must lie, Rúnyaquar, at least try to remember the lies you have already told,” chuckled Olwen darkly.

“How can you say I lie?” Rúnyaquar protested again, but the others ignored him.

“And you, Prince Marillion?” asked Meldir.  “Why would the son of such a great lady be sent to a wretched house such as this?”

Marillion turned and regarded each of them in turn, his face a mask, though an indiscernible glint shone in his colourless eyes. 

“I am here,” he said, “because my mother believes me to be evil.”

Silence followed.  The others stared.

“Well,” breathed Olwen with a dry laugh. “That is hard to top.”

“Are you evil then, Marillion?” asked Meldir.

“So she believed,” muttered Marillion with a smile.  “Sometimes I wish she had told me how I might become evil, then I would know if I am doing the right thing.”

“Well some dark influences might make this place more interesting.”

“It is not interesting?” asked Marillion, glancing around.  His mind leapt instantly to the vision of the woman in the gardens, or the cry he heard in the corridor, though he mentioned neither.

“It is an interesting building,” Olwen admitted.

“When Nadroth disappears long enough to let us see it,” added Rúnyaquar.

“But what do you do here?” asked Marillion.

“History, the elven languages, how to judge the weather to find the best days to be at sea, the laws of the Eldar and of Númenor,” Olwen recited.

“And most days we are permitted to go outdoors to the quadrangle, where we can practice archery or our skill with swords,” Meldir went on.

“You have swords?”

Meldir reached down to his bed again and pulled the sword from its scabbard, holding it to the light so that the engraving on the blade could be seen.

“Hardly something from an elven forge,” he said, “but good enough.  Old Nadroth makes them, and has some skill.”

“But why?”

Meldir shrugged.  “I’ve never had a sword before.  But Lord Herilmar says it is important to learn how to wield one, for the custom of bearing no arms may not last.”

“Is he as strange as he seems?”

Olwen laughed.  “Are you?”

“We ought to show him,” said Rúnyaquar.  “Show him what we found.”

“For the sake of all that’s good, Rúnyaquar,” moaned Meldir, “can we hear about something else?”

“What is it?” asked Marillion.

“Proof that Herilmar is not beyond letting the world rot,” stated Rúnyaquar proudly.

“Just something we found,” said Meldir.  “I suppose we could show him.”

“I don’t want to see it again,” whined Nillë.

“Then you can stay here and hug your blanket,” laughed Olwen, sweeping off his bed.  He strode towards the door and grabbed his outdoor cape as he went.  “So if we are going down there, shall we go?”

Marillion buttoned up his coat and stood up, as Meldir and Rúnyaquar bustled past him to join Olwen by the door.  Nillë sat on his bunk, watching them nervously as though he did not fully believe they would leave him behind.  Then as they started to file out the door, he gathered up his coat and scurried after them.

It felt so good to move as a group, Marillion mused, to have others with the same purpose, to feel them surround him and know that he was not alone.  He had never felt that comradeship with anyone in the village, but then he had never wished to play the games they enjoyed, to roll in the mud or throw stones at birds and fish.

“We must move quietly,” Meldir advised in a whisper.  “Nadroth often roams the corridors, and we do not need him taking an interest in us.  If he spots you at something you ought not to be at, he often follows, unseen, and reports back to Herilmar.”

“Then the place we are going,” said Marillion.  “It is out of bounds?”

“Not really,” replied Olwen.  “That is, no one has said we ought not to be there.  But Herilmar does not like us ‘exploring’.”

They shuffled along the corridor, pausing at each turn to glance around the corner first, before venturing any further.  Finally they came to a narrow door with battered wood panelling.  Meldir listened for a moment then sneaked through when he was certain all was quiet. 

One by one they filed through the door into a cramped stairwell, then descended the creaky, steep spiral down towards the ground floor.  As they bounded off the last step, they were faced with a dagger-shaped archway with bright daylight beyond, then went out into a small, overgrown courtyard.

Surrounded by looming, oddly shaped towers, the boys moved slowly across the broken paving stones, watching every strange shape as they listened out for signs of Nadroth.

“I will bet you have never seen anything like this before,” Rúnyaquar whispered.  “It is grotesque.”  Despite his insistence that ‘the thing’, whatever it was, was definitive proof of Herilmar’s bizarre nature, Rúnyaquar seemed the most enthusiastic of all the students to see ‘the thing’ again. 

“I think it is horrible,” said Nillë.

“No one forced you to come,” Rúnyaquar snapped.  “Go back to your bed if you fear to go further.”

“Do not take out your ill temper on him, Rúnyaquar,” Olwen warned.  “That is my place in life.”

“He is a baby,” muttered Rúnyaquar.

“Perhaps he is,” said Meldir.  “Yet at least he is an honest one.”

They clambered over a pile of old, mossy stones and ducked into a lane between two parts of the house.  A cluster of trees awaited them at the far end and the dead branches scratched at them as the students pushed through into a long strip of yard beyond.  A set of squat, flat-roofed buildings sat ahead, and though many of the timbers had rotted and the wooden doors lay, for the most part, off their hinges, it as still recognisably a stable.

Meldir checked the way, glancing from side to side, then darted across into one of the stalls.  The others followed, though Marillion found himself lingering a little reluctantly.  Nillë gave him a sympathetic glance as if to say ‘I do not blame you for not wanting to see it’, but eventually Marillion inhaled deeply and strode across to join the others.  He would not be classed as a frightened baby.

Coming into the sudden shadows of the stall, Marillion’s eyes took a while to adjust to the grey darkness.  Soon though he made out Meldir and Olwen, standing with their arms folded against the partition dividing this stall from the next, while Rúnyaquar kicked at something on the ground amongst the straw.  Marillion made his way to the fore and looked down at the pile of ancient filth and hay and saw ‘the thing’ for the first time.

“Did I not say it was horrible?” called Nillë from the door. 

Though the light was poor, Marillion could see the shape of ‘the thing’ clearly, especially where the decay was greater and white bones had been exposed.  Yet he had never seen a thing so dead and so neglected before, and the stench of it made his stomach turn great leaps as though it wished to hurl itself out of his mouth.  Flies buzzed around the corpse, around the few patches of leathery flesh still remaining, with no respect for the animal’s once noble status.

“What man could treat a creature thus?” said Olwen, shaking his head. 

“I told you,” Rúnyaquar snapped.  “He has no heart.  His son lies dead on the upper floor and has no more honour in his burial than this horse!”

“Be quiet, Rúnya,” hissed Meldië, moving slowly to Marillion’s side, careful though not to step on the rotting horse.  “So now do you see why we are unsure of Herilmar?  What Lord of Númenor would let his steed rot?  There are strange things here.”

He smiled, glancing at each of the others in turn before his gaze finally settled on Marillion once more. 

“And we five,” he said, grinning, “are imprisoned here, with whatever it is.  Now is that not an adventure, boys?”
__

Notes

-ince ending – In Quenya is a diminutive, so Olwen is calling his friend ‘Little Nillë’

And in the Darkness Bind Them

The boys returned to the dormitory without being seen, and spoke of nothing but the dead horse for about an hour before the excitement of the mission wore off.  Nillë kindled the fire, as Olwen barked out comments and suggestions to ‘help’, and the others sprawled over their bunks, throwing books and clothes aside to make space. 

Nadroth arrived after a while, with suppers for them on a large wooden tray.  Throwing a wary scowl around the room, he stooped and laid the tray on the sideboard then left without uttering a word.

“Why exactly does he detest us?” asked Marillion.

“Because he thinks we look down upon him,” answered Olwen.

“Which you do,” said Meldir beneath his breath.

“He detests Herilmar,” Rúnyaquar answered, inspecting the contents of his plate with a ruddy-cheeked frown.  “He only stays here because he was so disliked in Armenelos.  I hear there was some scandal.”

“Yes,” sighed Olwen, “and I hear it is going to rain lizards tomorrow.”

“Who cares why he is here,” mumbled Nillë.  “I do not like him.”

“Because he frightens you,” mocked Olwen.  “And your mother is not here to protect you from him!”

“Leave it Olwen,” said Meldir.

Marillion watched them pick at their supper and smiled, though he kept the gesture well hidden.  Perhaps, he thought, it was not wise to show how pleased he was to be in their company, or that he had found a group he felt comfortable with at last, in case he cursed his good fortune.  So instead he kept quiet and slipped off his coat, opening a few buttons on his tunic before he crossed to the sideboard and took the one remaining plate.  He did not try to identify the meat, since it was probably best not to think about where it had come from.

It was only as he came back to his bed and sat with his plate on his lap that he noticed Meldir, and caught the other boy watching him, a question quite obviously poised on his lips.

“What?” Marillion asked, a little wary of the answer.

“My father told me once,” Meldir replied cagily, “that the Line of Elros still had elven blood, and that all their descendants were truly half-elves.”

“Hardly,” said Marillion.  “Perhaps there is a trace of elven blood in us, but I should think it would be a small amount, after so long.”

“Very well,” nodded Meldir.  “I only wondered.”

“Wondered?”

“If that was why…why you were…”

“Why I look the way I do?  Why I am a ghost?”

“I did not mean it as an insult.”

Marillion sighed and softened slightly.  “Sorry.  Only the children in the village…”

“Thought you were the strangest thing they’d ever seen?” Meldir finished.  “Well they would.  People feel they have to ridicule those who are different.  It frightens them because they cannot cope with anything beyond their tiny little world.”

“Is that why your mother thinks you should be evil?” asked Nillë.

“No, I do not think so,” Marillion sighed.  “But it did not help.  I think it has something to do with when I was born.  She had a vision.  Also the healer who was called to help bring me into the world was found dead on the night of my birth.  They think he was struck by lightning.”

Meldir and Olwen seemed morbidly impressed by this.

“So what is it?” asked Olwen.  “Were you ill as a child?”

“The healer said there as nothing wrong.  I was simply born this way.  He said it happened, though not often.”

“There was a man in my father’s household,” said Rúnyaquar, “who had the same thing.  He said it was just something in the blood.  They way some people are born with freckles.”

“Tell me,” said Olwen, “is this the father who is Clerk of the Harbours, or is this the father who is dead?  Just so I can keep abreast of today’s story.”

Rúnyaquar pouted and slammed his empty plate down on the sideboard, before skulking off to change for bed.

“I once had a rabbit that was white,” said Nillë helpfully.  Rúnyaquar, who had turned to offer some insult to Olwen, froze with his mouth open and stared, as did all the others, at the smaller boy. 

“He was born all white,” Nillë explained.  “With pinkish eyes, like yours.”

“There you are then,” said Olwen with a smirk.  “You must be half-rabbit.  Marillion Perlapattë!”

“Have you ever had the urge,” added Meldir, “to go and live in a hole in the ground?”

“He is the only one who’s eaten his vegetables tonight,” said Olwen.

Marillion smiled but kept quiet, while the others laughed and sniggered.  He knew (or at least suspected) that Nillë was more the target of their humour, but still he found himself feeling a little uncomfortable, and sat on his bed, unsure how he should react.

“I only meant…” protested Nillë.

“Maybe you can burrow out of here,” muttered Meldir.  “Let us all escape.”

“Nillë,” interrupted Olwen thoughtfully, “do you remember when you were very small?”

“He still is very small,” mumbled Rúnyaquar.

“A little,” said Nillë.  “Why?”

“Do you remember,” Olwen went on without looking up, “if your mother dropped you at all?  On your head perhaps?”

“Wait until tomorrow,” grumbled Nillë.  “We have archery tomorrow.  I shall shoot you in the behind!”

“Make sure you aim for my head then!”

“Tomorrow will be a better day,” mused Meldir, as he too prepared to go to bed.  “Tomorrow we shall be learning languages again in the morning and shall practice archery if the weather is good.  You can see then what we do, Marillion.”

“See how stupid Nillë is,” muttered Olwen.

“If you have not seen that already,” added Rúnyaquar.

Marillion waited until they had all doused their candles and had slipped into bed before he withdrew to the shadows and changed into his nightshirt.  He listened as the last jokes faded and a sleepy silence descended, only broken by the occasional snap from the fire.  Then finally he climbed into an unfamiliar bed and lay quietly, hoping he would soon become accustomed to the sounds of other bodies in the room with him.  The fire continued to crackle and its light played on the walls, bathing them all in warm shadows.  The boys lay still for a long time, huddled beneath their blankets.

“What was it called, your rabbit?” asked Olwen suddenly.  “Nillë?”

“It was called Lossë, ‘snowy’.  Because it was white.”

“That is original,” muttered Meldir through his blankets.

“What happened to it?” asked Olwen.

“Father said it had gone across the seas to white shores,” said Nillë.  “I was very sad, I think, but our cook made a special feast in Lossë’s honour.”

“What exactly do you eat when you are celebrating a rabbit’s departure?” asked Rúnyaquar.

“I am not sure,” said Nillë.  “I think it was rabbit pie.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Olwen gave a snort and laughed aloud.

~*~

Slowly Marillion began to adjust to the odd routines that came of sharing his life with others, and though he still awoke at times, startled by the sound of foreign breathing around him, he found himself gradually growing comfortable.  He had no trouble at lessons, as his father had always brought him tutors and, with few companions, Marillion had had nothing else to concentrate upon.  He spent most of his time, however, observing his fellow students, whilst making sure they never saw him do so.  He would not quite call them ‘friends’, and he had never told them his innermost secrets, yet they were closer to him than any before.  After the novelty of the rabbit joke had worn off, they even ceased in their references to his colouring, which surprised Marillion a little.  The village children had seven or eight nicknames for him within five minutes of their meeting.

The instinct that the house itself was strange, however, did not wane with time.  Although the thought was shoved aside on occasion, it would always return whenever there were no distractions.  When Marillion awoke in the midst of a dark, silent night he would feel the unnaturalness of the air and listen to the absolute quiet, trying to fathom what was wrong with the place.

Herilmar too seemed to be at one with his house, and had the same aura of mystery, as though his thoughts were constantly on hidden, dangerous things.  Once or twice, during their lessons with him, Marillion had glanced up from his books and saw the master stare through the window, a graveside melancholy falling over him, almost as though he was waiting for someone he loved dearly, yet who would never return.  As the months passed, Marillion began to suspect that some tragedy had befallen this house, some event that had shaken the place, and its master, to the core and whose effects lingered on to that day.

They saw no sign of Hermald Herilmarion, nor did the Master of the House ever mention his only son, despite his being the reason for the children’s stay.  Marillion noted that none of his companions dared to ask about him either, and later found out from Meldir that they had tried this.  When they first arrived, Meldir said, they asked where Hermald was and when he would join them.

“Herilmar merely sighed,” Meldir had told him, “and said, ‘when he is ready’.”

Yet despite these oddities, and the overwhelming neglect encountered in every corner of the house, Marillion found himself dreading the coming winter, when their little group would be separated.  He was not sure if his father would return to bring him home, or if Ilmarnië would persuade her husband to leave him there, but certainly the others were intent on returning for a week or so.  Either way, thought Marillion, he would end up alone again, whether in his parents’ house or here in this dilapidated folly.

So when their last night came, and when the others finally stopped chatting about their plans for the journey home, Marillion found himself unable to sleep, a dark mood sitting heavily in his chest.

The others dozed beneath their blankets, little undulating mounds brushed by the firelight.  The flames licked low, the embers glittering, and outside the winter wind moaned dolefully, rattling the ancient windowpanes.  Marillion shuffled and tried to find a more comfortable position in his bed but his brain remained alert despite his tiredness.  He listened to the absolute silence that seemed to ooze from distant parts of the house, his thoughts full of frantic ideas.  He tried to think what it might be like to return home and dive into that old life once again, to become the forgotten spectre of the house once more.

Still, he mused, it would only be for a week or so.

He rolled over again and pulled his blankets right up to his chin.  Across the room, Nillë began to snore softly.  He would miss them all, he thought.

He was not sure what made his ears prick or his heart stop for a moment, but suddenly Marillion found himself sitting upright in bed, his senses trained and an indefinable fear creeping over his being.  He listened to the sounds of the house and was certain he heard a floorboard creak outside.  In any other house this would not have alarmed him, but he knew no one moved in this place after dark, once Nadroth had gone to bed.  Marillion lifted the bedclothes and laid them gently aside, before he swung his legs down to the floor and crept across the room.  None of the boys stirred as he opened the door, and Marillion made sure to ease his way through without letting the hinges creak. 

A wiser idea, however, might have been to take a candle, but Marillion did not think.  He found himself instead plunged into darkness in the corridor outside, with only a sliver of firelight spilling out of the room behind him.  Only then did he ask himself why he was wandering the hallways at night or what he expected to find there.

He stood for a while, the silence weighing heavily on his shoulders.  His pulse boomed through his ears and he realised his heart was pounding.  The darkness took on a life of its own, stretching endlessly off to every side of him.  He imagined the shadows seething and writhing like serpents at his feet.  If the house seemed strange and cold in daylight, it was all the more hideous at night.

A scream cut across that silence so unexpectedly that Marillion suspected his brain might be damaged.  It was as if some part of his mind had snapped, as the sound seemed to penetrate not just his ears but his skull as well, and a cold shiver rippled down his back as though someone had emptied a bucket of ice into his nightshirt.  When at last the tortured cry faded, the claustrophobic quiet resumed as if nothing had happened, but Marillion stood paralysed by fear and revulsion for a long while before he thought to venture further into the dark.

In the past few months he had forgotten the details of his first day at Herilmar’s house, but it all came flooding back into his mind as he felt his way along the hall.  The scream, he thought.  He had heard the scream before, back then.

He glanced back towards the thin line of firelight seeping around the door to the dormitory.  Surely one of the others heard it too?  Surely no one could sleep through such a painful sound?  Yet no one moved. 

Certain that the noise had come from up ahead, Marillion paused for a while, wondering if it was wise to proceed.  Would he really want to meet the person at the other end of such a scream?  Would he really want to see someone in such agony?  Yet something morbid spurred him on.  He did not think to help or alert anyone.  Somehow the situation did not seem real enough for that sort of idea.  Pressing his palm against the wood-panelled wall, he shuffled slowly through the blackness and strained his ears. 

Far ahead he heard a whisper of movement and again he froze, waiting for something to leap at him out of the dark. 

A low, droning murmur hummed through the air, so low at first that he wondered if it was just the wind, but then the voice rose up suddenly into another scream.  This time Marillion headed towards the sound right away and felt the sharp edge of a corner beneath his palm. He followed the twist in the corridor and glimpsed a light ahead, another faint sliver escaping around the edges of a closed door. 

Lingering by the door for what felt like an eternity, Marillion ran over the possibilities in his mind.  Should he barge in and confront this demon?  Should he call for help?  Should he hurry back to the dormitory before he was discovered?  The creature, whatever it was, fell silent again but he could hear the gentle shifting of fabric inside the room as something moved around.  Moreover his neck prickled and his senses flared.  Though he could see nothing at the end of the corridor he felt certain there was something there, watching him.  Though somehow he knew that it was not Nadroth.  Nor was it the Lord of the House.  Perhaps his imagination was over excited, he mused.  Perhaps he should go back to bed and forget all this.

Yet something pushed him to open that door and step through.

He entered a bedchamber, lit only by the faltering flames of an open fire in the hearth.  The glow cast eerie shadows on the elven carvings all around the room, making the varnished wooden figures and birds seem to come alive.  Marillion stood for a moment before the room sank fully into his brain but then he became aware of a figure writhing beneath the bedclothes. 

As he ventured nearer, the figure’s face came into view, peering at him over the counterpane with a look of ashen-faced terror.  He saw a young boy, perhaps Marillion’s age or younger, deathly thin and pale.  He let a pathetic whimper escape his lipless mouth as Marillion approached, as though begging for his life.

“I mean you no harm,” Marillion whispered.  “Who are you?”

The boy’s face contorted even more, though now he stared not at Marillion, but at something by the door.  Marillion sensed the presence behind him seconds later and gasped, making to turn around, but a heavy hand landed upon his shoulder before he could do so.

“What,” seethed Lord Herilmar, “do you think you are doing?”

And in the Darkness Bind Them

Marillion stared into the face of his master, his mouth open to reply though no words emerged.  Herilmar, closer than Marillion had ever seen him before, seemed suddenly huge and monstrous in the low firelight.  Deep shadows lay in every wrinkle and furrow on his face and his eyes burned.  Behind them, the pallid, wriggling thing in the bed continued to moan.

“Out of here!” rasped Herilmar. “Out of here now!”

He grabbed Marillion’s shoulder and twirled him around, then shoved the boy so hard that he sailed through the door and out into the corridor before he could recover his stance.  Marillion thudded into the wall and stood for a moment, fighting to control his racing heart.  He peered into the bedchamber but Herilmar slammed the door before he could see anything.  The sound erupted through the sleeping house like an explosion.

Marillion folded his arms around his chest, shivering, and listened to the haunting groans coming from the room, trying to discern the mumbled words Herilmar spoke.  He wondered if he should skulk back to the dormitory and hide there, hoping Herilmar would forget this intrusion.  What would become of him, if he really had enraged the master of the house?  Would he be sent home?

But then as he waited in the darkness, something flared within him.  The adrenaline coursing through his body seemed to transform his fear into something more fervent; a sense of great indignity welled in his heart and he found himself pulling his shoulders back, ready to face Herilmar as the older man stepped out of the room once more.

“This way,” barked the master.  “Now.”

Herilmar strode off, using a candle to light his way.  Keeping his arms folded, Marillion narrowed his eyes and followed, his heart still beating wildly but his mind resolved.  He would not let the blame be thrown on him.  He had a right to know what dangers he was exposed to in this house and what sort of master he was expected to learn from. 

Finally, after a long march through the shadowy hallways, Herilmar threw open a door and stormed inside.  Marillion blinked at first, as he stepped from near complete darkness into a warmly lit room, but he made sure not to let his discomfort show.  Herilmar had brought him to what looked like a study, possibly attached to his bedchamber.  Books occupied nearly every space, and shelves of them covered every wall.  Bones of strange creatures lay as ornaments about the place, covered in dancing shadows from the flickering, dribbling candles, and as Marillion moved towards the master’s hefty wooden desk, he was watched by a dozen dead eyes belonging to a myriad of stuffed animals on the uppermost shelves.

Amongst the dead, though, there were also living things, the first that Marillion had seen in this house.  A great number of cats sat upon the furniture, or lay curled in corners or patrolled beneath the windows.  At least that would account for the smell that wafted towards Marillion as soon as he stepped into the room.  The animals unnerved him slightly, not only because he wondered how he had not seen them roaming the house before now, but also because they gave the unsettling impression that they were observing his every move, even as they slept.

Herilmar kept him waiting for a long time.  The lord shuffled to his seat at the desk but did not sit down, and stared for a while at the papers and books strewn over the tabletop while he ordered his thoughts.  Marillion saw the flush fade from the old man’s cheeks and watched his breathing gradually slow as he calmed down.

“Well,” seethed Herilmar.  “What are we now to do?”

“If you intend to punish me, then I should like to know why,” said Marillion boldly, the words springing from his lips before he had a chance to think.

“Punish you?  Young man, I do not know what to do.  I have offered you the hospitality of my house, given you food and shelter as a favour to your suffering parents, and you repay me by trespass?  By invading the secrets of this house as though you have some right to them?”

“Have I no right?  If you harbour some dire thing in this house, then have I no right to see it?  Are we not trapped her with whatever evil you choose to nurture?”

“Evil?  You say evil when you know nothing of what has passed within these walls?”

“I say only what I see,” retorted Marillion.  “That dead things lie in hidden places here, and you seem not to care.  Some child – your son I would fancy – lies in agony upstairs and yet you do nothing to ease his pain!  Where are your healers?  Where are the potion-makers who might soothe him?”

“None can soothe him.  And it is not your concern!”

“It is my concern,” Marillion insisted.  “I am here as your guest…”

“That shall only grant you rights as a guest therefore, and not as a master of this house.  What passes within my domain is my concern and mine alone.”

The two glared at one another for a long moment, Herilmar struggling to control his temper while Marillion fought to understand his master.

“What has happened to him?” Marillion asked at last.  “What could cause such agony?”

“I shall not say it again,” hissed Herilmar.  “It is none of your concern.”

“My uncle is the king, as I should think you know.  He can command any healer in Númenor to come here and offer his aid.”

“I shall speak no more of it,” Herilmar concluded.  “One day, boy, when you are no longer a child, you may have secrets of your own.  Then I pray you would understand what pressures lie upon me.  I hope on that day you look back and regret what you have said here.  It is none of your concern.  And I am well aware of your uncle and of your mother and aunt.  All noble families, all very powerful and good I am sure.  But you must learn, if you are to succeed, that the great and the good are only willing to offer help to those they deem worthy.  They suffer not those who err and reap the sorry consequences of those rash decisions.  There is no mercy from the king for the likes of me.  There is no forgiveness.  Not even in the eyes of The One himself.”

“Why?” said Marillion quietly.  “What have you done?”

Herilmar stared into an empty space, frowning.  A large grey cat brushed Marillion’s ankles and caused him to start.  The silence closed in once more, like a heavy velvet curtain dropping down against the floor.

“What about the woman,” Marillion went on.  “Can she not offer comfort or help?”

“What woman?”

“The stout, earthy woman I saw working in the gardens.  Is she not known to you?  Only she seemed to me like someone who would know the ways of the world and might help your son.”

“Where in the gardens did you see her?  When?”

“Upon the terrace below the dormitory window, on the day that I arrived.  Though now I think, I have not seen her since.  She struck me as kind, that is all.  I wondered if you might not have some help from her, if she is part of the household.”

“No,” said Herilmar, studying him intently.  “Endariel is not part of this household.”

“Then you do know her?”

“Your father is coming tomorrow,” Herilmar snapped.  “Is he not?”

“I am not sure.”

“Then let us hope that he does come.  Some time at home may let you reflect on what has happened here.  And I shall do the same.  You are certain that you saw this woman in the garden?  But a few months past?”

“I am certain of it.  A rose-faced woman with long braided hair, who worked at the earth.”

Herilmar nodded, the strange look in his eyes growing more intense.  He stroked his chin and finally sank into his chair.

“Then I do hope,” he continued, “when you have visited home, that you decide to return and study further with me.”

Marillion frowned.  “You wish me to return?  When you have accused me of invading your privacy?”

“I think whatever differences we may have over this incident, you are a gifted student, Prince Marillion.  You have skills that…that are not commonly found and that cannot be learned.  It would be a great pity for you to return home, or to Armenelos, without further exploration of these talents.  Yet I will not stand for disobedience or insolence.  If you return to my house, I must ask that you honour my wishes and leave my son be.  In time you may learn why I wish to keep his illness hidden, especially from the spoiled brats of fawning lords.  Trust that I have my reasons.”

With a deep sigh, Herilmar shifted his weight and slumped in his chair.  “I shall not speak of this incident again, if I know that you will forget it also.  If you feel you cannot do that, and have the urge to tell your fellows all that you have seen, then it may be best for your father to remove you permanently.  Now return to your room and sleep, for you may have a long journey ahead of you on the morrow.  But I suggest you make your decision before the night is out.”

With that, the lord buried his attention in his books, and Marillion guessed that the discussion was over.  Frustrated, he turned and went slowly towards the door, feeling he had learned so much and yet knew nothing. 

As he picked his way back to the dormitory, he wondered if the house would ever surrender its secrets, or if he truly wished to know what had happened here.

Yet one thing he knew.  He was not ready to return home just yet. Whatever evil lay within these walls, Marillion felt certain it would be preferable to the heartless nothing he would receive in his parents’ house.

~*~

The next morning, Marillion could not decide if he was relieved or surprised to find Nairion waiting for him in the great hall.  After the events of the night before, he felt decidedly uneasy in Herilmar’s house, and though the idea of going home to face his mother again did not enthral him, he was glad to leave for a while.

Nairion stood with his hands clasped, looking as nervous as ever.  Something struck Marillion as different, however, as he approached his father.  Nairion seemed older somehow; a slight hunch in his shoulders and a faint greyish tinge around his cheeks.  He smiled, though, when Marillion appeared, seeming genuinely pleased to see him.

“Well,” he sighed.  “I would swear you have grown.”

Marillion gave him a dire look, but secretly enjoyed this normal, meaningless chatter.  After the strangeness of the last few months, it was a welcome relief.

“I brought your horse,” Nairion went on.  “Though I still think it would be better if he could stay here.  Lord Herilmar did say he had a stable.”

“I doubt if it would be suitable,” said Marillion.  “It is not well kept.”

Nairion cast a furtive glance towards Nadroth, who lingered in the entrance hallway, waiting to let them through the main door.  Distinct suspicion and dislike flashed through the lord’s eyes and he drew his son aside for a moment.  “It still strikes me as strange that they would not teach you horsemanship.  Are you sure things are well here?”

Marillion thought about telling him everything.  He considered blurting every secret he had discovered.  Yet what good would it do?  His father, despite his high status, would do nothing.  He would be outraged, certainly, but he would go into conference with Ilmarnië, who would soon persuade him to ignore the odd ways of Lord Herilmar so that she could be rid of her son.

“All is well, father,” he replied at length.

Nairion looked unconvinced, but gave the house one last scowl before he finally sighed and headed for the door.

“Come then.  Let us go.”

The horses were waiting outside and Marillion rushed over to his favourite steed with an eagerness he had not shown since he was a small child.  It pleased him so much to pat the animal’s neck and feel warm blood pulsing in its veins, to be near a healthy, living thing.  The thought that this fine animal could end up like the forgotten bones in the stable made him sick to the stomach.

“Marillion,” Nairion continued as he climbed into the saddle, “perhaps I ought to explain.”

Marillion snapped out of his reverie and mounted, watching his father dully.  “Explain what?”

“We shall not be going home, as such.”

“Then where shall we be going?” asked Marillion, his heart leaping for a second.  His father intended to leave him there, he thought fearfully.  They would spend perhaps a few hours together, but then Nairion would abandon him at Herilmar’s door again.  Ilmarnië had spoken.  He would never be allowed home again.

“Oh do not look so concerned,” Nairion told him, trying to laugh.  “There is nothing wrong.  It is only…well your mother is not at her best, and the healers suggested she might need some time to rest.  Alone.”

“She did not want me to return.”

“No, that is not so.  In truth I do not think she knows what she wants.  I am not sure what ails her, Marillion, but the healers are struggling to help.  They thought perhaps some time to reflect and rest might strengthen her spirits.  And I thought it best if I…if we left her be for a while.”

“She is ill?” muttered Marillion.

“Not gravely.  Not yet.  But we shall enjoy ourselves all the same.”

“Where are we to go if we cannot go home?” asked Marillion.  “Surely we cannot stay here?”

“To Rómenna,” replied Nairion with a broad smile that was meant to instil enthusiasm in his son.  “At least, that was my idea.  If you would prefer to go somewhere else…”

“Rómenna shall be fine,” sighed Marillion as they rode off.  “But what is there?”

Nairion shrugged.  “Some good inns, at least, and as much food from the sea as you can eat.  Sometimes there are elves there, out of Lindon.  Though even if there are not, there should still be something to see and do.  We can perhaps take a boat out into the bay and try our hand at fishing.”

“It sounds good, father,” muttered Marillion.  “It sounds good.”

~*~

Over the turning of the year, Marillion began to forget the darkness he had left behind, either at his parents’ house or with Herilmar.  He passed two enjoyable weeks with his father, doing everything and nothing.  He had never realised how many ways there were to idle time away, but the port of Rómenna was full of them.  They spent whole days sitting in a tiny boat, bobbing around on the gentle oceans and gazing in awe at the coastal scenery.  They walked along the broad white beaches, avoiding the massive clusters of seabirds resting by the water’s edge.  Marillion counted each species and marvelled at the colours and forms of each new bird, and once or twice (to his fathers dismay) stirred up a few flocks to watch them fly. 

Sometimes at dusk they stood upon the quays and watched the playful colours of the sky melt into the sea, and in the distance saw white sails, small as grains of sand, as elven ships came out of Belfalas and headed towards the Uttermost West.

Perhaps it was the stark contrast to the darkness of Herilmar’s house, but Marillion realised for the first time just how beautiful his Númenor really was.  His land, he thought. 

His father had arranged for them to live in the House of Larintur, which overlooked the harbour.  Though the house was sparklingly new, Larintur had not used it since its completion, as he spent most of his time in Armenelos ‘ingratiating himself at court’, according to Nairion, who, Marillion observed, seemed to have no fondness at all for his brother-in-law.  Marillion himself had never met his Uncle Larintur, or his Aunt Lirulin, the eldest sister of Tar-Súrion and thus Ilmarnië’s sibling, but Nairion said often that the marriage had been made early, when Larintur still believed Princess Lirulin would take the sceptre.  Like Ilmarnië, however, Lirulin had declined, and their younger brother now ruled.  Larintur, apparently, had not taken this decision quite as well as Nairion had done.

The house was very pleasant, with a full compliment of staff and fresh new furnishings that seemed so clean that Marillion was afraid to touch them.  Marillion spent a day exploring, enjoying upsetting the order of things, even though Larintur would probably never notice.  He swapped the books in the library, so they were no longer neatly arranged by their subject, and found himself idly moving ornaments into odd positions just to upset the pristine quality of the house.  He had no idea what inspired him to act so childishly, nor why such simple, foolish things gave him an evil sense of pleasure, but upsetting Larintur’s house became a fine game to pass the time.

Only a few messages came from Ilmarnië’s house, but from his father’s reaction, Marillion guessed that the news was not good.  Nairion said nothing further about Ilmarnië’s illness, and though at first Marillion suspected his mother might be playing for attention as she used to do when he was a child, he began to wonder if it was not something more serious this time.  Still he found it hard to care about a woman he barely knew and who despised him.

Instead he concentrated on enjoying his few moments of peace.  He would not let thoughts of Ilmarnië or Herilmar or any phantom interrupt this rare moment of calm.

Yet the eve of his departure arrived, far sooner than he expected, and Marillion found himself lying in his borrowed bed, watching the stars shine down over the ocean while the sea’s soothing whispers filled the night.  When dawn came they would ride out of Rómenna and head back east to Herilmar’s neglected seat, and he would face the demons once again.  His mind returned continually to his last conversation with Lord Herilmar.  He was to stay quiet or he would be cast out of the house.  Marillion found it hard to decide which was worse.  He would hate to return to his parents’ house, even if Ilmarnië would allow it, he concluded.  And to keep this secret from the other boys would be no real feat.  After all, he did not tell them about the screams he heard when he arrived, or about the woman in the gardens.  The woman Herilmar knew.  What hardship would it be to say nothing of the night’s encounter? 

After all, he thought, it was Herilmar’s house, and was he not right to set his rules and demand that his guests abide by them?  Would Nairion and Ilmarnië do any less if the positions were reversed and Herilmar came to stay?  Marillion sighed deeply.  There was very little choice.  What was he to do, if he did not stay with Herilmar?  He would never learn the truth if he allowed himself to be cast out, and he felt himself flourish in the company of the other boys.  He knew he was growing in spirit, gaining confidence and surety, as well as honing his intellect.  He would fare much better if he stayed in the House of Herilmar.

No, he thought, there was no choice. 

When morning came he would return, and he would keep silent. 

Yet perhaps, even if he did not actively seek the truth, he could still find the answers he sought.

And in the Darkness Bind Them

“To Love,” said Lord Herilmar.

The library filled with the sound of pages turning.

“Common present,” Herilmar barked.  “Conjugate.” 

He swept a glare around the ground of boys.  All save Marillion buried themselves in their books and refused to return the look.  Nillë seemed to be trying to read his book from underneath his desk.

“You,” said Herilmar finally, clicking his fingers as he pointed at Marillion in an overly theatrical manner.

“Melin, Melet, Mele, Melelme, Melemme, Melelve, Melelye, Melente,” Marillion recited, trying to sound enthralled, (or at least interested).

“Good,” muttered Herilmar after a pause.  Marillion scribbled idly on his sheet of paper.

“Since,” the master went on, looking specifically to Nillë, “you seemed to have some difficulty with your dual plurals, I should think a small amount of research might prove useful.  Perhaps you might prepare a small discussion on the matter for…shall we say the day after tomorrow?  However, you shall have to do this in your own time.  I have other matters to attend to.”

Slowly the students each looked up and exchanged glances.  Herilmar, however, turned away and cast his gaze through the narrow windows.  “I should like it if the house was empty today,” he mused.  “Until nightfall at least.  You are free to go down to the village if you wish, so long as you stay clear of the house for a while.”

No one argued.  Herilmar, in fact, was gone before anyone had a chance.  He seemed to come to some sudden decision, inhaled sharply and stormed across the library.  As soon as the resounding door-slam faded, the boys gathered up their books.

“What is that about?” whispered Meldir.

“He has never sent us away before,” muttered Nillë.

“I do not intend to argue,” muttered Olwen, heading for the door.  “In fact I am off before he changes his mind.”

“You are tall enough to pass as a man,” said Rúnyaquar, following after Olwen.  “Do you think the landlord would let you have ale?”

“I think he might let me have ale.  Though naught was said of sharing!”

“What do you suppose Herilmar is up to?” asked Meldir, giving Marillion a critical stare.

“Why do you ask me?”

“I did not ask you.  I was thinking aloud.”  With a frown, Meldir patted Marillion on the arm and gestured towards the door.

“Are you well?” he asked as they headed out. 

Marillion shrugged.  “I am fine.”

“You look pale…what I mean is, you look paler than…”

“I am fine,” Marillion said again.  “Nothing is wrong.  Come, before Rúnyaquar gets the sniff of ale and falls face down in a puddle somewhere.”

They trooped slowly down to the rear of the house and followed a shambling lane to a small gate.  Nadroth leant against the stone post and held the gate open, sneering as each student passed through.  A lichen-skinned brook popped and squelched beneath a white stone bridge, then the road stretched off through threadbare forest.  Drifting along behind the others, Marillion gave the house a final glance, saw its ramshackle towers rise above the trees, and imagined what might be going on within those crumbling walls.

For months, Herilmar had said nothing of their late night encounter, or of his son, but Marillion knew the subject was at the forefront of his master’s mind.    Guessing Herilmar’s motives became a daily source of entertainment.  Whenever he had lessons, Marillion waited for some slip of the tongue or misplaced look that would allude to that night, or give him another glimpse at the truth, but Herilmar seemed to guard his secrets well.

Marillion kept his word, however, and said nothing to the others.  That morning in particular he would not have had the chance.  The other four wandered together in a group, chattering excitedly at the thought of escaping for a while. 

Coming out of the woods, they found the village sprawled ahead of them, looking as though it had been tossed randomly over the rolling hills.  Like Herilmar’s house, nothing seemed to have any design about it.  The houses sat at awkward angles, their thatched roofs shapeless, while twisting, unpaved streets formed bizarre patterns across the landscape.  Beyond the village, however, the world seemed to dissolve into grey mist, where Númenor ended and the ocean began.  The village had one small wooden pier from which to launch fishing boats, but the smell of salt water and fish filled every corner. 

The boys headed first to the middle of the settlement, gazing in awe at the inhabitants as they passed, then finally they came to a low wooden house with a horse trough outside.

“That is it,” said Rúnyaquar. “The ale house.”

“Well where else is there to go?” sighed Olwen.  “There is a chill falling.   I think autumn is on the way.”

“You do not sound wise,” laughed Rúnyaquar.  “No matter how hard you try.”

“I thought you wanted me to get your ale, since you are too short to fetch it yourself.”

“It is not that the innkeeper will believe him a child,” said Meldir.  “Rather he would not reach the bar.”

“I do not want ale,” moaned Nillë.  “Will they have water do you think?”

“Well, I am no mariner,” replied Olwen, “but I was always told that the sea was made mostly of water.  And behold!  What lies beyond the village there!”

“I meant water to drink,” chided Nillë.  “You know what I meant.”

“We will tell them you are a baby and perhaps they will give us some milk.”

“Do you drink ale?” Meldir asked, as he and Marillion filed into the inn after the others.

“I drink wine,” Marillion answered.  “Is there a difference?”

Meldir frowned.  “Then maybe it will be you we find face down in a puddle.”

~*~

Marillion led the others to a quiet, unoccupied table in the corner of the alehouse, while Olwen bartered with the barman.  The place stank of sweet alcohol, wood fires and sweat, but it had a rare warmth that came not only from the roaring fire on the far side of the room, but from the constant human presence. 

Meldir leaned across the table, watching Olwen for a moment, before he shuffled a little closer to Marillion.

“What do you make of this then?” he asked in a whisper.

Marillion glanced innocently at him, trying to look as casual as possible even though the crowds made him slightly uneasy.  “Of what?  This place?”

“No, of Herilmar.  What would you suppose he would do on his own?”

“How should I know?” muttered Marillion with a shrug, though the same question circled his mind. 

“What do we really know?” mused Meldir.  “We have been there over a year and what do we really know of our master?  Why keep us here if Hermald Herilmarion will not come?  Why have ‘companions’ if his son is not there?  I do not understand it.”

“Nor do I.”

“It surprises me though that you returned this year.”

Marillion glanced up at him, trying to read his friend’s eyes.  “How so?”

“Well, surely you have other places to go?  You are the king’s nephew.  Surely you could find somewhere better than this?”

A little shiver of relief rippled down Marillion’s spine as he realised Meldir knew nothing of the secret.  “My father has not considered it.  My mother is ill and his heart is with her, I think.”

“I am sorry.”

“I am not,” Marillion muttered beneath his breath.  “There may be somewhere else I could be sent, somewhere else I could be hidden away so I cannot aggravate my mother just by living, but it is easier just to continue as we are.  More, I would not leave you all!”

“Yes I am sure,” laughed Meldir, then he edged forward a little more. 

Five tankards of something brown and frothing slammed down on the table in front of them, then Olwen slumped onto a stool.

“Thought the man would never give in,” he sighed.  “For a minute there I thought he’d sussed us, but I managed to convince him we were travellers.  Try this stuff.  Some old fellow by the bar swears by it.  In fact by the end of his pint he could not stop swearing.”

“I cannot drink this,” moaned Nillë.  “What if I were to get drunk?  What if Herilmar saw me?  What if…”

“Then I’ll have yours, Nillince,” groaned Olwen.  “Go, ask the barman for water or syrup or something of that sort.”

Nillë had no reason to leave the table, however, as the barman, a thin, greasy-haired yet not unpleasant man, appeared over them a moment later, stepping through the drinkers like a phantom traveller through the mist, and making them wonder how long he had actually been there listening.  A few guilty looks shot around the table, but Marillion remained stoically composed and held the man’s scrutinising gaze for a long while.

“Afternoon sirs,” said the barman when he realised he had been spotted.

“Afternoon,” replied Olwen.  “What can we do for you?”

“Just wondering, that’s all,” muttered the barman.  “Only if you gentlemen are travellers, then will you be needing rooms for the night at all?”

Olwen grinned.  “No, thank you.  It is a kind offer, but we have lodging.  With your Lord, in fact.”

“Lord?”

“Herilmar.”

The barman pulled a sour face.  “He is no lord of mine, sir.  Oh, I do not mean to speak ill of anyone, sir, and I meant no disrespect, if he is a friend of yours…”

From his expression, however, Marillion guessed that if Herilmar was a friend of theirs, then they would not be welcome in the alehouse for long.

“We do not know him,” said Meldir suddenly.  “We come here from Rómenna, on our way to Andúnië.  But an acquaintance of mine said there was a grand house here where we might find some hospitality before we carry on our journey.”

“Then you have not met Herilmar?”

“No,” lied Meldir, “not as yet.” 

The others watched Meldir closely but said nothing, as they waited to see where the pretence would lead.

“Then,” said the barman, “I would say you might do better to stop here for the night, than call upon his halls.”

“Herilmar will not welcome us, you think?”

“No, I expect he might.  He knows how to do things in the proper manner, and he has respect for those who have ‘status’.  Or at least he will be civil so long as he thinks he can have profit from it.”

“A social climber?” laughed Meldir.

“Not as such, but people say there was some trouble over at Armenelos and that he’s always searching out ways to make it better.  Not to make amends, so to speak, but to get himself back within the walls of the Palace of Elros.  So I do not doubt that he might welcome you into his house, and indeed might show you some semblance of kindness.”

“Then why do you recommend that we stay away?” asked Marillion.

The barman shifted awkwardly on the spot.  “I ought not to have said anything, sirs.  I ought not.  Just that people here… well our forebears came here to build a new life, somewhere we could live comfortably and in safety.  We had no need for the opulence of Armenelos, though our loyalty has always been to the king.  We have no grievance with those who wished to make themselves great, so long as they leave us alone.  But that man is strange, I think.  I cannot say for certain, for most of the stories are just that.  Stories.  Yet no one here would stay at his house.  And if it is true that those young masters did go to stay there, then I pity them.”

“What would make you dislike him so?” asked Meldir.  “What exactly has he done?”

“He has done nothing in particular.  Nothing direct.  But odd things happen in that house.”

The barman dragged a stool across from a nearby table and sat with them.  Several other ears, Marillion noticed, pricked to listen to their conversation.

“Naught happened at first,” the barman explained.  “You must understand that.  And that land has belonged to Herilmar’s kin for many years, since the ships first arrived here, almost.  Nothing ill has ever come of their being here, and my father told me the last lord was an agreeable man.  Though when he died, the house fell empty.  So it sat for thirty years, until Herilmar came to it.  He was some cousin of the old lords and needed a place to live, so he said, since he was ‘tired of Armenelos and all its underhanded dealings’.  Well, a few travellers come past here from time to time, people touring the Isle, and so we do get a few bits of information, and most say that there was scandal in the palace.  Herilmar was some minor lackey to the court of Tar-Anárion, so they say.  Keeper of the royal undergarments or assistant to the Esquire of the Body or something of that nature.  But he got himself wrapped up in some dark business.  No one knew exactly what it was, only that he left Armenelos in the middle of the night, making sure few people would see him go.”

“Perhaps he fell out of favour with the king,” mused Meldir.

“Well, not that I can claim to know any of them personally, but from what you hear, Anárion was fair enough at court, and disapproved of much of the dabbling going on behind the palace doors.  Remember, he sought to clear out many of the ones who sought to rule from his shadow, those who bullied and made their own little empires in the shade of the Tower of Elros.  So that is what we think.  That Herilmar was found out in some game and told to go.  We did suspect, to tell the truth, that there was some secret to him, as he kept to himself for many years when he first came here.  He added to that ramshackle castle of his and made it all the more an untended forest of buildings.  But he and his wife did nothing to offend.  Then about five years ago, or maybe it was somewhat longer, strange things began to happen.”

“What things?” asked Marillion.

“Noises mainly, at night, coming from the woods there, below the house.  One night…must have been about two or three years back, we saw lights there as well.  Some of the men went out to look and came back in a terrible state.  Said they saw things moving in the woods, unnatural things, and gave chase.  One man said he saw what he could only describe as some ‘minion of Morgoth sprung out of the earth’.  But they could only follow the things so far and never caught one of them.  Soon as they reached the boundaries of Herilmar’s land, you see, that servant of his appeared and chased them off.  With a sword no less, and he looked keen to use it!  That alone was seen as a great insult.  What I mean is, it does not matter who he was, or who he thinks he was, he has no right to bear arms against us, nor to treat us as wild men!”

“Of course he does not,” said Olwen.

“I tell you, it is a bad business.  Any who, for whatever reason, head up to that castle come back saying it has a bad atmosphere.  Like there was a shadow hanging over the place, all damp and cold like a winter’s morning.  Some even said they saw shapes moving around them, or felt things watching them as they rode along the path.  And he has not maintained the place.  Shambling though it was, there was a beauty to the house before he came, and the gardens were well kept, but now you would not recognise it to look upon it.  He has let the place fall to ruin and hides himself away inside it.  The Valar alone know why he wants those young boys there, but it can be for no good purpose.  I should tell you, sirs, take rooms with us and stay clear of that place.”

“You said he had a servant,” Meldir went on.

“Zimramagân?  Yes, he works there, and his sister too.  Not that you would see much of them and they certainly do not seem to care for the place.”

“And Nadro- Zimramagân…did he come from Armenelos with Herilmar?” asked Rúnyaquar.

“No.  He was born in the village, not that he holds much allegiance.  His father was a smith here, of a long line, who were taught by the Noldor in Lindon before they made the voyage.  I daresay they passed down their skill through the ages and some of it went to Zimramagân, and some say he still works in the forge at Herilmar’s house.  But that is all I know of him.  I cannot say what promise Herilmar made to lure him there or to keep him there.”

The barman rose from the table, giving each of the boys a scowling look.  “So I should say, sirs, and I ought to say it to those boys, should they ever come away from the house and perhaps think to try their luck getting ale in here, that they ought to get away from that place, and should not go near it.  Foul things are drawn there, to whatever ill practises its master favours.”

~*~

They returned to the house as evening fell, hurrying through the woods, which quickly filled with elongated and unnatural shadows.  The barman’s words rang constantly though their brains, though no one spoke, and all five found themselves jumping at every strange sound, snapped twig or phantom footstep on the path behind them.

Finally the house loomed overhead, its windows dark and its old stone turned grey by the dying light.

Walking with his hands buried in the sleeves of his robes and with his gaze on the ground, Marillion paid little attention to the place.  He pondered on his memories and wondered if he should contact his father, ask to be taken elsewhere, or if the stories they had just heard were only rumours, the sort of frightening fireside tale that would always spring up around someone ‘different’. 

Suddenly, though, he felt a hand upon his arm and glanced up.  Meldir and the others had stopped, and Meldir clutched onto Marillion, nodding towards the upper storey of the house.

“What is that?” he whispered, then turned to the others, frowning.  “Up there, see?  Someone is trying to climb up the house!”

Marillion squinted.  In the half-light it was difficult to make out anything much, and the odd architectural features of the house produced strange shadows of their own, distorting reality even more.  But then as he concentrated he saw it.  A dark figure; dark in that its skin seemed black, almost as though it had been charred, and had the texture of burnt wood.  The arms and legs looked ghastly thin, belonging more to a spider than a Man or Elf, and like those creatures of Morgoth, the being scuttled over the brickwork with preternatural speed and delicacy. 

“What in the name of Varda is that?” gasped Olwen.

“Call out,” said Nillë, prodding Olwen in the ribs.  “Call out!  It is trying to get in through the window.”

“It cannot get in,” mused Marillion.  “Look, it is just scratching at the frame.”

The creature had come to a sill by a lancet window that either was shuttered or looked into a darkened room.  The being’s long fingers clawed all around while it crouched on the sill, precariously balanced and yet seemingly unperturbed by the great height.

“Ai!” yelled Meldir, but his voice either did not carry or went unheeded.

“Come, we should get to the house and tell Nadroth!” shouted Rúnyaquar, racing off.

Marillion though remained for a moment as the others ran.  He knew, from the trees outside and the look of the gardens that the creature was very near the dormitory.  From that, he was able to work out that the window the creature had chosen looked into the room where Hermald Herilmarion lay. 

“Marillion!” yelled Meldir.  “Come!”

“No, see!” Marillion called back, pointing towards the window.  The boys drifted back to his side and craned upwards.

A light had appeared in the window, a globe of yellow sweeping back and forth as though someone was swinging a lantern past the glass.  The creature, whatever it was, gave a short cry, halfway between a hiss and a groan, before it scrambled down the side of the house and disappeared into the woods. 

“That must be Herilmar or Nadroth,” Marillion muttered.

“Then they saw it,” said Meldir, breathless from the sudden excitement.  “What do you suppose it was?”

“I do not know what it was,” snapped Olwen, “but I know I saw it come down into these woods.”

“Oh,” whimpered Nillë.

“He is right,” said Marillion.  “Come, we should get back indoors and out of these trees.  Whatever that thing was, I should not like to meet it, not while darkness falls.”

__

Notes
 Tar-Anárion – King of Númenor 1280 – 1394 SA, father of Tar-Súrion, Ilmarnië and Lirulin, and therefore grandfather of the Witch King.  He died in 1404.

Also as a note on dates, I have recently discovered that I made a typing error in the prologue and chapter one, which I have now corrected.  1304 and 1316 Second Age should have read ‘1404 and 1416 Second Age’.