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.