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.