I own nothing.
She never cared for her uncle. Not much to start with, and barely at all once she realized how fell and fey he was. Artanis sensed madness in Fëanáro, and saw fire in his future. A raging inferno, nothing but that, so great and roaring that she could make out nothing else. He was harsh and intolerant. Her kin said that he had not always been so, but that was the only way Artanis had ever known him to be. Fëanáro was born to consume and inflame.
"Are we to mourn forever in darkness, bereft and deedless? Are we to labor forever in this darkness, subjugate to the impotent? I call on you to fight! I call on you to return to the lands we left behind! It is our natural right to rule! Let us rule, unconstrained!"
His words had inflamed her.
Fëanáro's words gave a name to the frustration that Artanis had felt for all of her life. And finally, finally, it gave her an answer to the frustration she felt, the feeling of being restrained, constrained, barred from what was her right and due.
No one had ever given Artanis the words with which to articulate her situation, see it for what it really was. She had grasped the edges of it, guessed at the shape of its form, but she always dissuaded herself from her belief of what it was, telling herself what everyone else would have told her, had she confided in them—That she was letting her bitterness rule her. But Artanis knew better now. She had the most unlikely of sources to thank for her enlightenment, but she was enlightened now. The scales had fallen from her eyes, and she would never let them blind her again.
Artanis was a princess among the Noldor. She was daughter of Arafinwë, and granddaughter of Finwë, now the late High King of the Noldor. The blood of the King was in her veins. She was kinswoman, in fact, to all the Kings of the Eldar. It was her right, as much as it was the right of her kin, to rule.
And yet, her way had always been blocked. She had always been barred from what was her right.
As a child, growing up, Artanis had not known that it was her right. She was kept in the dark about everything, never told that she was born to rule as much as her kin. If anything, she was made to believe that she did not have the same rights that her brothers did. She was made to believe that all she would ever be was a wife, a mother, a pretty ornament to be paraded in public and kept behind walls in private. This was the only thing she could ever be. Though she learned the skills of so much more than that, Artanis was always told that she would never be more than a wife, a mother, and a pretty ornament. Either directly or through implication, this was what she was told.
But Artanis did indeed have the right to rule. She carried it in her blood. Whether the reason it had been denied to her was because she was her father's daughter and not his son, or because she was the youngest child of the youngest child, she knew her rights now. She was inflamed with the desire to exercise them.
Artanis was the only nís among the House of Finwë who stood in the great square of Tirion as Fëanáro gave his speech, and the only nís present as the princes of the Noldor dissolved into squabbling amongst themselves.
Artanis tried to throw in her own bid, tried to speak for herself, speak of her own desires, but they would not heed her words. Even now, her words and will was disregarded, deemed unimportant. She was told to be quiet while her kinsmen spoke. She saw that she was not even consulted while her brothers, her cousins, her father and uncles discussed the future, her future. If the decision was made to go to Endóre, Artanis would not be consulted then, either—she would be expected to follow her father, whether she wished to or not. Even now, it did not matter to them, what she wanted and what was her right.
Anger bubbled up in her throat, but she shoved it away, and told herself not to retort. She knew her rights, knew what was hers and what she wanted and what she deserved to have. They could silence her, they could tell her that it was not her place to speak among the princes of the Noldor, but they could never take the knowledge from her. Not again.
The image of distant lands rose in her mind.
Starlit lands, never touched by the light of the Two Trees. Wide, open lands, with likely very few Quendi living there, for those left behind, with the exception of the Avari, was just a fraction of the Teleri, not the whole lost, nor even large portions of all of the three clans of the Eldar. Wide, open lands, free to roam, free to be seen with fresh eyes tired of the familiar sights of Aman. Free to be ruled by one who had been denied her rights all of her life.
Artanis would let her kinsmen squabble over what was to be done, if they were going to Endóre and who would lead them and what they would do once they got there. Let them squabble and posture and put their hands menacingly on their sword hilts, as though the threat of violence would quell the tempers of equally enraged neri. Even Findaráto had lost his temper, standing alongside Turukáno and protesting against Fëanáro's plan.
Artanis already knew the path which her feet would walk. No longer would she be anyone's vassal, beholden to father or brothers or phantom husband. She would not be plaything or ornament or toy, made to be pushed around as others willed. In Endóre, she would rule herself.
Artanis—Galadriel
Fëanáro—Fëanor
Arafinwë—Finarfin
Findaráto—Finrod
Turukáno—Turgon
Nís—woman (plural: nissi)
Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)
Quendi—Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)
Neri—men (singular: nér)