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’.