Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.
She remembers the day her father gains one of the 9 rings.
The power she could see thrumming through it scared her senseless. The king's council sneered, the call of bastard following her around. She is used to it by now, even as a small child.
Her mother had not been the queen, but a long forgotten fling of her father. They had not been married, and Miwlir has her doubts her father would even have looked at her mother twice if she had not been the product of their coupling. It resulted in a pregnancy however, and though her mother was given a hastily made up title of consort, everyone knew what she was.
A bastard.
Her mother is long gone now, death in the birthingbed before even meeting her daughter, but she knows what she is.
Her stepmother had been sure to remind her what she was at every given opportunity. A bastard, no more no less. It hurt at the very beginning, when as a small child she did not understand what she possibly could have done wrong for the queen to hate her so very much.
Though as years passed, no other children were born and she remains the sole heir of her father.
Her stepmother kept on blaming her, and she ignored it, but than... One day the verbal abuse turned physical.
A sick and dark feeling of sweet revenge still churns in her gut. The dark satisfaction she felt at her sobbing stepmother, her dress and hair red with blood, on her hands and knees, pleading, no, begging for her life.
A dark smile twists on her childlike lips, the grip of her father's hand strong in her smaller one. Her white dress has turned rubyred, like the colour of the wine the king likes drinking so much.
'Why?' her stepmother croaks, blood spilling from her mouth, her fingers clutching the wound in her stomach.
Her father sneers, the soft dripping of the blood that falls from his sword onto the ground, the only thing that is breaking the tension in the room.
'You think I would allow any child to be born from your bloodline? Your father and family are already greedy enough, no need to have an innocent child shackling me to your vile clan.'
'But she is a bastard!' the queen gurgles, the momentary flash of anger in her eyes once more turning into one of unbearable pain.
Her father approaches the queen, the woman who once thought she could get her claws in him and his kingdom, a dark and twisted smile on his handsome and usual brooding face.
'Nevertheless, she is mine.' The queen is crawling on her hands and knees, by now calling for anyone to help her. Her eyes turn to Miwlir, who has left her father's side and is now grabbing the ornate crown in her small hands, the crown that once adorned the queen's head.
'You! This is all your fault!' The queen screeches, another cough wracking her bloody body.
The king of Angmar is quick to grab his wife by her feet, dragging her back to him. A sinister smirk appears on his lips, the hands around the queen's neck tightening.
'You were too greedy, wife. She is mine, the sole heir to this kingdom.' Her father finally lets go of the queen, gazing darkly as she gasps for air.
'And when it is time for my daughter to take the throne, she will be the only queen this kingdom knows. No one else, but her.'
The final curse that leaves the queen's lips dies when he slits her throat. The light in her eyes is fading fast, but the king of Angmar makes sure the last thing his wife sees, is her crown, ...
On his bastard's head.
Miwlir sees the light in her stepmother's eyes finally go out, an eery silence falling over the room. She remembers strong arms picking her up, her eyes still trained on her stepmother's dead body.
From that day on, everyone treats her with the respect she is owed as the sole heir to her father's throne. The namecalling stops, because everyone knows what the penalty is.
Disrespect the princess, and face the wrath of the king. Penalty? Death for you and your entire family, innocent or not.
The bond with her father grows strong, so strong it is close to unbreakable. So is it so unbelieveable when her father chooses Sauron, she follows?
And if in one of her weaker moments, she wonders if she has made the right choice, she remembers.
She remembers the pain and anguish and loneliness from her childhood. She remembers her father saving her.
She remembers that glimmer of dark satisfaction, as the nobles bend their knees, scared eyes flitting from her, sitting on her father's lap, to the crown that was now resting on her head.
The crown the queen used to wear.
And though her father may be cruel to others, he never is to her.
So she follows him to Sauron's side, eventually serving the Dark Lord and One Ring as her father does.
Her trusty and ornate crown always on her head. A testament to what she is.
The princess of Angmar, the only heir of her father, and the only one whose powers surpass the other Nine.