Firienne IV of Gondor

Ouch. With the power of changing color to flowers, she is very threatening!

WOW ! Beautiful !

"Firienne"

In shadows cast and sorrow's somber guise, A tale of Firienne, where the black rose lies. From Elenius and Ecthelion, the second-born, She knew not warmth, in solitude forlorn.

Her son, Marador, a radiant light of day, The sun that warmed her heart in every way. Yet a second child, Aemyrson, came late, Their fates entwined by love and bitter fate.

In Osgiliath's turmoil, Marador fell, And Firienne's heart, a shattered, empty shell. Her world in fragments, she could not repair, And envy's poison lingered in the air.

A mother's anger, wounds that never heal, Aemyrson's strength, a sword forged from ordeal. In life's dark dance, a twisted legacy, Firienne's story, one of tragedy.

I think evil and weak parents are lucky children are mentally dependent on them. If adult consciousness was present in children's brains, abuse would be met with retaliation of some kind. You don't have to be large to poison someone.

Wonderful creation! Great story.

By the time her father met his end, coughing up blood in the Houses of Healing, Aemyrson did not waste a tear on him. "You say you love me, but you would die rather than help me," she said. "Die, then. And go to hell."

Still, she knew that she would surely be dead without him, and it was this knowledge that inspired Aemyrson to take up the sword. And it is one of the more pleasant facts of life that an old hag who is afraid of having her throat slit in her sleep is much less likely to misuse her accessories.

Now, since Firienne's teen years, she had possessed a beautiful leather belt, studded with triangular diamonds that faced upward like mountains. It hardly fit her anymore, but she kept it, because, she reasoned, it could be put to good use. Anytime her daughter displeased her, she gave her a lash across the back or front, and if Aemyrson was being a particular pest, she was forced to strip down and lie flat until the diamonds were dipped in blood. Aemyrsil knew that this happened, but he did not stop it. Who would Denethor believe, he reasoned; a lesser lord from the fields of Rohan, or his own sister?

If Firienne would have been comforted by having another son, it was no use; after carrying Aemyrson for most of a year, her womb had breathed its last. Oh, how she hated the girl. Every time she saw her was a reminder that she had failed in a nobleman's only job—to produce a male heir. She often said that she wished that Marador had never gone to Osgiliath, and the little girl had succumbed to the pox instead. One evening, Firienne took matters, and Aemyrson's face, into her own hands, holding her underwater as she gave her a bath. By the grace of Eru, Aemyrsil caught her in the act, and saved the child before giving his wife a good clout in the nose. Denethor did not hear of it, and what he would have done, I cannot say.

All hell broke loose in Osgiliath, where Marador was sent with his cousin Selhil to drive off the orcs who had settled in the former capital. At only seventeen, Firienne's beautiful boy was cloven in two, and it was all Selhil could bear to carry the pieces of him back to the White City.

Firienne was ruined when she saw her dead son. Aemyrsil believed, to the end of his days, that he could repair her, but she was broken, and she broke like glass—leaving milliards of perilous shards behind. The sight of the three-year-old girl who remained to her, running around the Citadel with joy and merriment, infuriated her the way you or I might be infuriated by ants crawling over a cake. Firienne did not bother to explain to Aemyrson why Marador had not come home. Indeed, it was Auntie Fin, the steward's wife, who explained to the child what death was. Aemyrson's innocence died that day, and that, perhaps, is why she has always hated children. It is a matter of envy.

Aemyrson was born, an entire month late, and Firienne never looked quite the same afterwards. That was one of many things she blamed her for. Aemyrsil was often busy, and so Marador was the little girl's best friend; he was there for her first steps, her first words, and many other things her parents missed. He tucked her into bed every night, and liked to tell her bedtime stories, one of which was about two naughty little rabbits who were chased by a bear who could transform into a man. Whether this story had any metaphorical meaning is yet unknown.