II
Though it is known that Neldion sailed over the Sundering Seas and dwelt for a time in the North of Beleriand as a sworn knight to the House of Fëanor, little is said of him in the histories of Himring, save of the songs he sung, and these were much prized among the Fëanorians as wicks of warmth against the ever-chill that Morgoth cast down from the withered peaks of Ered Engrin. Even so, these histories count Neldion among the Fëanorians who fought in the Wars of Beleriand, first in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath, where fell Fëanor their king, and last in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad where fell Minion, his father.
It is said that Minion fought with courage in the tumult of that dreadful battle, rear-guarding the host of Maedhros when it retreated south as the battle pitched in Morgoth’s favour. And so it came to pass that along the banks of the River Gelion, Minion vied with a triad of worms, scions of the blighted brood of Glaurung the Golden who had slyly slunk past the Dwarf-host of Belegost that guarded the Fëanorian retreat. Two of these serpents Minion’s fell blade slew but the last of these escaped its bite. Writhing between the tangled corses of his slain brothers, the worm plunged into the depths of the Gelion whither Minion thought he made to flee. But this was not so, for though the serpent-worm was the least in size of his brethren, he was the greatest in cunning. And in making for the waters, he sought to deceive Minion, and this he did by sinking to the riverbed whither he rolled his body and cast to the surface a canny cloud of sunless silt that veiled the shimmer of his gleaming scales from Minion’s keen sight.
Thus the Elven knight, knee-deep in those worm-polluted waters, resolved that the serpent had fled and he made to rejoin his brothers-in-arms, but he was checked by a jab—nay, a prick!—upon his heel, whither the fiend had sunk his fangs. Its venom claimed Minion’s life and he faltered ere Neldion, who had been at his father’s side all the while, took up Minion’s lifeless form and cursed the worm who had wrought this woe. In answer, it is said by the survivors of that skirmish, came a voice immaterial from beneath the roiling river and it rose above the din of battle and cursed Neldion in kind, promising him ceaseless sorrow and agony unending. The host of Maedhros that yet tarried called for Neldion to rejoin them, for the horde of Morgoth still lingered North of the Gap and they doubted much whether the strength of the Dwarves, hardy though they were, could long withstand the torrent of dragon-fire and troll-thew. But Neldion would not heed the host’s calls and he lay by his father’s corse as one netted in the enchanted web of a dream, and the knights of Maedhros were forced to desert him.
No more is said of Neldion in the annals of the Fëanorians. But of Lírtamo much is remembered for it was he who aided Maedhros in the upraising of the fabled tower atop Himring. And though that fortress could not compare in beauty to Mindon Lotarwa, it was strong and long endured the ravages of the Wars of Beleriand. Long after that tower was abandoned by the sons of Fëanor, it is said that Lírtamo alone guarded it as castellan and was, at the last, slain by Orcs upon its height or else taken thence to the dungeons of Angband whither he surly perished.
Yet, in the furtive myths and legends of the surviving Fëanorians, another tale is told; that whence the Host of the Valar descended upon the Black Pit of the World, vanquishing Morgoth evermore and routing his foul servants, Lírtamo yet lived and was liberated from the prison vaults of Angand by his law-brother, Glornassë of the Vanyar. In that moment, it is said, Lírtamo’s long-abiding wroth against his sister and her husband cooled and in token of his forgiveness, he embraced Glornassë and kissed him as a brother. Then did Lírtamo swoon and die from wounds unseen that servitude to the Black Foe had etched upon the wraithling form of his long-suffering fëa, and his silver hair fell unbound upon the mail-clad breast of Glornassë and mingled there with the Vanya’s golden hair, kindled by the light of the stars that burned overhead, a mournful echo of the Trees that were. True or untrue, long has this sad tale persisted among the survivors of the followers of Fëanor, a remembrance of the pain they wrought and the redress of Mandos’s Doom, and of a hope of grace that may yet be granted them by the Ainur on high.
