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Lady of Andúnië.
Princess.
The titles sit hollow on her brow, weightless and meaningless as the band of glittering mithril. What was the point to being a princess, to being her father’s first born, to bearing the ring of Barahir, when the Sceptre that was hers was in the hand of her baby brother?
The very same babe she had seen wailing in his swaddling clothes, the child who had babbled meaninglessly at her, the youth she had watched hide himself away in his observatory — he wore her crown and cared not for it.
As a girl at her mother’s knee, she had seen her future before her. When only a sister had come, for so many years, it had seemed to Silmariën only natural to expect to be queen. Had her father not brought her to his councils? Had he not employed the finest tutors, the wisest councillors, for her?
He had promised her Númenor. He had lied.
Once, she had asked her mother if she would sit on father’s throne, or hers, when she was queen. Her mother had laughed and told her she could have any seat she wanted, when she was queen. It did not seem so strange — they were of the line of Melian, of Lúthien, of Elwing and Idril. She was as much the heir of Elros Tar-Minyatur as her brother. More so, if one considered the nature of her spirit. Was she truly such a fool for believing that the birth of one squalling baby boy would not be enough to set aside twenty-two years of training?
Now, none turn to her. No one seeks her opinion, her influence, her favour. The fruits of her education are wasted — why nourish a seedling, only to abandon it before it could flower? She could not understand it. She did not want to understand it. Her father’s betrayal was the bitterest draught: all the accomplishments of her mind and hand could not save her from the accident of her birth.
Silmariën clenches her hand around the ring, cold metal digging into her palm. It bubbles within her, this sickly, nauseating feeling, as she watches her brother on her throne, their aged father by his side. The father who had proudly proclaimed her favourite, who had ennobled her infant son, who had given her this heirloom so precious. The father who could not — no, refused — defy tradition and give her his crown. He let the roots he had watered wither away with the frost.
She turns her back on the court. Her footsteps echo on the marble floor, up the winding palace staircases, to the grand balcony overlooking the sea. How easy would it be to throw it all away? Cast the ring and fillet into the sea, and turn her back on it all. A protest. Let the Sea take the line of Tar-Minyatur and all its ancient glory, if this was how it treated its daughters.
But she does not. To be a princess is to put the realm above herself, as her father once taught her. She will break her own heart into a thousand pieces for the good of Númenor. Tar-Meneldur, she knew, would not. The ring of Barahir warms against her skin. She seeks comfort in the familiarity of it on her finger.
She does not go back to the court ever again. She rules Andúnië with Elatan by her side, and it flourishes, and in Valandil she plants the seeds of the faith, of truth, of justice. The branch grows wide and fruitful, but in the roots, she remains, ever over-looked.