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The streets of Tirion glowed under the faint light of Telperion’s silver, mingling with the fiery hues of the distant sunset. Merchants called out their wares, and the bustling city was alive with chatter and laughter. Estelmiriel Mirion, granddaughter of Nerdanel and Fëanáro, followed her grandmother through the winding streets, her gaze flitting over the elegant shops and ornate architecture.
“You can pick anything that catches your attention,” Nerdanel said with a soft smile, gesturing toward a pottery shop adorned with delicate vases and sculptures. “The boys caused me enough trouble over the years. The least they can do now is allow us to enjoy the fruits of their labor.”
Mirion’s lips curved into a small smile. “Is there anywhere I can find a harp? Only the finest craftsmanship will do.”
Nerdanel raised an amused brow. “A harp? Well, I suppose you are more like your father than I thought.”
“And where is the shop, Haruni?” Mirion asked, using the Quenya word for grandmother.
Nerdanel was about to point out the direction when her expression shifted, her hand instinctively moving to shield Mirion. A group of elves approached, their faces twisted with scorn.
“How dare you show your face here, kinslayer lover!” one of them spat.
“You’re as vile as your husband and sons!” shouted another, their voice trembling with indignation.
Nerdanel sighed, her patience clearly fraying. “Come, Mirion. Let us not waste time with those who cling to hatred.” She grasped her granddaughter’s hand and turned to leave.
But one of the elves, a dark-haired elleth in a blue gown, shoved Nerdanel with enough force to send her stumbling. Mirion caught her grandmother, steadying her before glaring at the offending elleth.
“Who are you to touch her?” Mirion demanded, her voice cold and steady.
The elleth sneered. “Another kinslayer, no doubt. Viciousness runs in your blood!” She moved to shove Mirion as well, but the younger elf evaded her with ease. Without hesitation, Mirion struck back, delivering a stinging slap to the elleth’s cheek.
Slap. “Never.”
Slap. “Do.”
Slap. “That.”
Slap. “Again.”
Grabbing the elleth’s dark hair, Mirion forced her to meet her gaze.
“How dare you lay hands on me?” the elleth shrieked, her voice shrill. “Do you know who I am? I am Elwing, daughter of Dior and Nimloth, and the rightful heir of Doriath’s legacy!”
Mirion’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “All the more reason to teach you respect,” she said, releasing Elwing’s hair with a shove.
Elwing glared at her, but her voice faltered. “Who are you to challenge me?”
“I am someone who will not tolerate the disrespect you’ve shown my grandmother,” Mirion replied, her tone measured but sharp.
“She married a kinslayer and gave birth to seven more!” Elwing shot back, her voice rising with righteous anger. “Her children destroyed my homes, killed my parents, and left my brothers to die in the woods. They even kidnapped my sons! My poor, innocent babies…”
Mirion tilted her head, her gaze piercing. “You mean the homes your people defended with blood when they could have surrendered the jewels freely?” she said, her voice calm but laced with disdain. “Your people’s greed and grudge proved worse than the Oath of Fëanor itself. Do not misunderstand me—I do not condone the atrocities committed for the Silmarils. But I understand the power of an oath. Words have power, Elwing. Words spoken in grief and desperation bind the very fabric of one’s being. Your twin brothers, Eluréd and Elurín, were victims of both your father’s stubbornness and the curse of the oath.”
Elwing stared, her indignation wavering.
“You call the sons of Fëanor mad and cruel for doing all they could to reclaim what they believed to be their birthright, yet your own bloodline is no different, Elwing,” Mirion continued. “Your father perished for that same cursed gem, convinced it was his by right because it had been taken from Morgoth's crown by Lúthien and Beren. And Thingol, too, claimed ownership over it, only to meet his end, his pride and greed sealing his fate. Your family, Elwing, especially you, doomed your people for that gem, clinging to a self-proclaimed birthright. Is it not the same obsession, simply approached from a different angle? You may have been a victim during the second kinslaying, fleeing from the carnage, but at Sirion, you became the cause of its downfall. The blood of your people stains your hands as surely as the Oath of Fëanor damned theirs.”
Elwing opened her mouth to retort, but Mirion raised a hand, silencing her.
“Elrond and Elros,” Mirion said softly, her voice heavy with sorrow. “They are the true victims in this tale. The children caught between the feuds of two bloodlines, each claiming the Silmaril as their own. Both sides doomed them to lives of bloodshed, loss, and heartbreak. They lost their parents, their foster parents, and eventually, each other.”
Elwing’s eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head, her voice trembling. “We did what we believed was right. The Valar never spoke against us!”
Mirion’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “The Valar,” she said, the words dripping with disdain. “Do you know what the Valar truly are, Elwing? Servants of Eru, bound to their own flawed understanding of his will. They are not infallible, nor are they beyond reproach. They cling to a narrow ideology, one that sees choice and self-determination as rebellion and evil. How can you claim they are just when they do nothing to prevent the tragedies that unfold under their watch?”
The crowd that had gathered to witness the confrontation murmured in shock. Mirion turned to face them, her voice ringing with conviction.
“People of Tirion,” she declared, her voice echoing across the square. “Go to your homes. Tell your families, your friends, your children, that I, Estelmiriel Mirion, daughter of Kanafinwë Makalaurë, granddaughter of Nerdanel and Fëanáro, walk upon the soil of Aman! And know this—any who dare harm my family will face me, not the Valar you revere. If you refuse, then let blood be spilled once more, for I will not hesitate to fight for those I love.”
Her words hung in the air like a stormcloud, charged with unyielding resolve. The crowd slowly began to disperse, their expressions ranging from fear to grudging respect.
Mirion turned back to Elwing, who now stood pale and silent. “Admit it, Elwing,” she said quietly. “You would rather fall apart than face the truth. The truth that your trauma, your grudge, and your obsession blinded you. You chose the Silmaril over your children, just as you accuse my family especially my grandfather of doing.”
Without waiting for a response, Mirion took Nerdanel’s arm and guided her away from the square. As they walked, Nerdanel looked at her granddaughter with a mixture of pride and concern.
“You have your grandfather’s fire,” she said softly.
“And his burden,” Mirion replied, her voice tinged with sadness. “But I will not let the past define me, Haruni. I will forge my own path, even if it means standing against the world.”
The silver light of Telperion bathed them as they disappeared into the streets of Tirion, their figures casting long shadows on the ancient stones.