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’.