The Nettle of Gondor
Chapter One
Author's Note:
Okay, so I posted this chapter a few months ago, and people seemed to show some interest in it, so I decided to redo the first chapter. Hopefully you will enjoy this. Let me know if you have any suggestions!
Nettle turned her chin away from the men stubbornly.
She didn't know what they wanted of her, but she wasn't interested in giving it to them. In her left hand, she still clutched a small pouch of leaves. She could feel beads of sweat, slowly dripping down her hand.
"Can I help you?" She frowned.
Three tall and visibly important men had come barging into her makeshift apothecary, carrying spears and scrolls.
Her eyes lowered to their suits of amour, bearing the white tree of Gondor. They appeared to be soldiers of Minas Tirith, but she was suspicious as to why they were in her small town.
No one from Minas Tirith ever came by.
One of the men unrolled a scroll and cleared his throat.
"By order of-," the man's voice faltered as a different man walked out from behind him to address the girl.
"The Steward of Gondor," the man continued. He had wise grey eyes, and a handsome young face. He didn't seem as aggressive as the others.
"Right," the first man sighed "by order of the Steward of Gondor, Denethor the Second, we ask that you surrender any weapons you may have."
Nettle threw her arms in the air in surrender, glaring at them still.
"What do you have there?" The third man inquired.
Nettle wriggled the pouch in her hand, frustrated when it was forced out of her grip.
"They're sorrel leaves," she told them, holding back a venomous comment, "I'm a healer."
The third man opened the pouch, inspected the leaves, gave her a wary glance, and threw it on the floor.
The second man approached Nettle closer.
"You seem a bit young to be a healer."
"You seem a bit young to be telling me what to do," Nettle retorted. She tried to be civil, but she wished they would just leave her be. She had no patience for Minas Tirith soldiers.
The second man smiled a bit, showing lines in his face. There was a sadness in his eyes that betrayed his weary smile.
"My name is Faramir," he held out his hand for her to shake, "I'm surprised that you do not recognize me, but no matter. I'm the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. The Steward's son."
Nettle nodded slowly, loosening the frown on her face. She crossed her arms tightly.
"I mean you no disrespect by not knowing your face," she said cooly, "but our community knows little of the men of Minas Tirith."
Faramir's smile faded.
"I must return the ignorance, and say that we know little of your community," he admitted, and his company nodded in agreement.
"We were riding across the kingdom, when we planned to stop for a rest. We rode across the plain, and were surprised to find this...refuge."
Nettle did not respond, but stared boldly into the man's eyes. They were as grey as the stones of the ruins of Osgiliath, but they seemed more like pools of misery to Nettle- like a stormy sea.
"I have ridden across Gondor many times," Faramir got closer to Nettle, "and this is very new to me. You are the only person in town who will talk to me. Tell me why you and these people have settled here."
"We're refugees of an attack," Nettle hardly moved her mouth as she talked. She felt uncomfortable, so close to Faramir. She edged herself away.
"A company of orcs ambushed our small town on the island of Cair Andros. I don't know how they made it there, or what possessed them to attack when they did. But we do know that a darkness is coming to Middle Earth, and it is certainly interested in Gondor."
Faramir gave her a long look that told Nettle that he knew of the darkness, but he disregarded her.
"I'm sorry to hear that. There are very few of you..."
"Everyone else is dead," Nettle shook her head, "and we have no motives or reason to harm anyone, so we'd appreciate it if you'd leave us alone."
Faramir sighed.
"Why have you been traveling across Gondor, anyway?" Nettle wondered.
"My father is in search of a wife."
"A stewardess?" Nettle scoffed, "or a Queen?"
"You act indignant and oblivious to the state of Gondor. Everyone knows that the line of Kings died out many many years ago. The title of Steward is only a tradition- my father runs the kingdom as a king would."
Nettle bit her lip.
"I'm aware. So how is it that your father plans to get himself a wife? Are you ordered to drag the prettiest girl from her house and throw a crown upon her head," she teased.
"We have a royal artist with us. He is getting us some water, but he's very talented, and intends to draw a portrait of every girl we think my father might be interested in."
Nettle chuckled darkly, and loosened her shoulders. She didn't fear the men anymore.
"Imagine that: a portrait of every eligible girl. That should take all year, I would think," Nettle found another pouch that she'd stored some pine needles in, and grabbed it off the shelf.
Faramir grinned, watching Nettle as she reached for a small metal kettle from behind her.
She filled it with water and put it over the fire, turning back to face them.
"Well now that I've given you the information you provide, you can go on your way, can't you? I mean to say, I don't imagine that I fit the image your father has in mind for a bride?"
Nettle was wearing tattered green robes, and shoes that were wearing at the soles. Her black hair was matted and struggled into a braid, but her face was fair and her eyes were dark green and beady.
She wasn't gorgeous, certainly, but by the light of the fire, she appeared decent.
"No," Faramir laughed nervously, "I can't either. You are about forty years his junior."
"But yet you hesitate," Nettle noticed, "is there something more I can do for you?"
Steam began to rise from the kettle over the fire, and Faramir's eyes raced to it before Nettle's did.
"Pine needle tee," she explained, "would you like some?"
She wasn't usually this welcoming, but Faramir amused her, and it had been years since she'd smiled this much.
Faramir looked at his companions, who stiffly shook their heads.
"You stay here, Captain. We'll go look for shelter and come get you in an hour or so."
Faramir waved goodbye, and seated himself on one of Nettle's flattened stones, which she used as chairs.
"You're very resourceful for your age," Faramir noted, taking a cup of tea from Nettle.
"You have to be when you're in my position. I've had to look after the people around me since I was very young."
"Why is it that you fascinate me?" Faramir tilted his head, smiling warmly.
"It's the pine needles, they relax you," Nettle joked, taking a sip of her own tea.
"I'm sorry that you're in this situation, and I will be sad to leave you," Faramir told her.
"You've only just met me."
"I know, but I've always had a soft spot for my people- particularly the ones who live in the country."
"Well I don't want your pity," Nettle warned him.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," Faramir put his cup down and stood, readying to leave.
"Wait!" Nettle felt herself shout. She hadn't meant to be so loud.
"What is it?"
"Could you...do something for me? It might be too much to ask, but you're going to be the only person from Minas Tirith I may see for decades...and..."
"Yes?"
"Could your artist possibly draw a quick picture of me? I haven't seen what I look like in ages. As far as I know, I'm just a distorted image in the river. I couldn't pay him, but, seeing as you pity me..."
Faramir laughed heartily, putting his hand on the girl's shoulder.
"I'm sure he would be happy to do so."
The next day, after Faramir and his company had rested and eaten, Nettle found herself seated on a fallen over log, turned to her side so that the artist could capture her face.
She felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. She had never been in a situation like this.
"And if you could just clasp your hands together," the artist requested.
According to Faramir, he only had time to sketch a quick drawing, but it would be very well done, he assured her.
Nettle wished she at least had a plain dress to wear, but the last of her dresses were sold to a nearby town for bushels of yarrow and other healing plants.
When he'd finished, the artist showed her his work.
It was beautiful. The lines were perfect, and it seemed more real than Nettle, herself, felt.
She ran her fingers along the lines, stopping at her large eyes. She hadn't realized that they were so big. He'd even captured the rough stubbornness of her cheekbones and chin.
"This is...gorgeous," Nettle admitted, thanking the artist.
"Well then," Faramir smiled, "would you be so kind as to escort us to our horses?"
Nettle had left the drawing at the log, telling herself that she'd go back for it later.
She stood by as Faramir hoisted himself onto his horse, adjusting the saddle.
He looked down at Nettle, with his grave grey eyes, sad and tired.
"What is your name? You never did tell me."
"I had a real name, long ago. But, after my parents died, I came to apprentice with an old healer. He named me Nettle."
"And why is that?"
"I suppose," Nettle laughed, "because I have healing purposes, but I can also sting."
"Well, Nettle, I wish you the best," Faramir said sincerely, "and maybe I will see you again sometime."
"I doubt it," Nettle smiled grimly, "but I wish you luck as well. Maybe if your father takes a page out of your book, things could be better."
"Maybe," Faramir said softly. He turned his horse back toward the plain, "farewell," he waved goodbye and set off with his company.
Nettle felt an aching in her heart. She was certain that she'd never see someone from the outside world again.
"Brother, you are back much sooner than I'd anticipated," Boromir chuckled as he embraced Faramir.
His brother's face was flushed from the cold weather, but he was grinning through the frost on his face.
"Well I got about twenty different portraits, so I thought I'd done my job. Besides, there are much more important things that I could be doing."
"True, true," Boromir patted his brother on the back and lead him into the dining hall.
"Father will be happy to see you."
Faramir nodded firmly, but knew his brother was wrong. Happy to see the portraits, maybe, but it had been a long time since his father had been genuinely happy to see his second son.
Denethor was feasting on a collection of fruits and vegetables, bits of tomato stuck in his hair.
"So you're back," was all the Steward said.
"Yes, father. I brought you many portraits."
"Good," Denethor wrung his hands on a towel, and stood, walking over to his sons.
"Boromir, why don't you have a rest? You've been working so hard lately," Denethor told his son.
Faramir felt a pain in his chest, but ignored it and approached his father closer.
"Will you have a look? I know you were reluctant at first, but Boromir and I just want the best for you, and for you to be happy again."
"I will be happy when our Kingdom is safe," Denethor spat, "and that may be long after I die."
He picked up the paintings and flipped through them.
Every girl was fair, about twenty five to thirty five years old. Each girl was wealthier than the next.
Denethor made irritated humming noises as he leafed through.
"What's this? Why's this one not painted?"
He held up the last picture.
Faramir's mouth fell open. It was the drawing of Nettle, the refugee girl. They must have accidentally taken it, months ago.
"That's not-"
"She's not bad, is she?" Denethor muttered, "a bit plain, I suppose, but she looks like she has double the brains the rest of them do."
"Father, that's not one of the women I picked out. She was a girl we met in a small community on the edge of Anórien. I'm sorry."
Faramir moved to grab the paper out of his father's hand, but Denethor resisted.
"So she's just a peasant?" He asked, frowning at the picture.
"In so many words...yes," Faramir nodded, "a healer, actually. She can't be but twenty winters old, but she leads her people."
"This is the one I want," Denethor waved the picture, his face stern.
"But father, you can't be serious. She's so young...and poor. I have a selection of many other young women that-"
"I said this is the one that I want. If I'm going to have to suffer through being married to some girl for the next ten years before I die, I'd like her to be the one that I pick!"
Faramir felt sick.
"I don't think she will be interested, father."
Denethor scoffed, "she doesn't have much of a choice. Fetch her. She will be my bride, whether she wishes it or not."
"Yes father," Faramir bowed his head and left the room.
He commanded one of his rangers to ready the horses. His heart was racing. There was no way that Nettle would agree to this, and he was afraid of what would happen if she didn't.
As he walked to the stables, he passed Boromir, a heavy look on his face.
"What troubles you, brother?" Faramir inquired.
Boromir smiled weakly and waved his brother's concern away.
"Oh...nothing, just a message from an elf from Rivendell."
"Rivendell? What did they want," Faramir frowned.
"My seat at a council they are to hold this October. I will tell you more later."
Boromir hurried off, still seeming conflicted and shocked.
Faramir ignored it and set off to the refugee. It would take him at least a day's ride to get there.
Nettle was setting a wound on an elderly lady when she heard the sound of horses' hooves.
She frowned, thinking that she may have misheard it. Sometimes rangers wandered through, or men traveling to Minas Tirith. But she hadn't heard the sounds of horses since her encounter with Faramir.
She hadn't thought about that visit in a while, and she'd lost the portrait the artist had drawn of her, which had lead her to give up thinking about Faramir and his company. There was no use dreaming of a different life. Her place was with her people.
"Why don't you hurry home and rest, and I'll check on that tomorrow," Nettle told the woman, giving her a small reassuring smile.
She then grabbed her cloak, and made her way outside of her tent.
She hadn't misheard, and was surprised to see three large horses, and soldiers from Minas Tirith, bounding into their refuge.
She made her way closer, and the horses stopped in their tracks. The first soldier stepped off his horse and removed his helmet.
"Faramir!" Nettle gasped, thinking that she could almost hug him, "What brings you here?"
Faramir set his lips quite tightly, giving her a hesitant look. He was hiding something from her.
"Is something wrong?"
"I'm here bearing news."
"Good or bad?"
"That is entirely up to you," the Captain sighed.
Nettle lead him back to her tent.
"What news would concern me?" She wondered aloud, "I was certain that you'd forgotten about me by now."
"A hard thing to do, considering what I have to say."
"Well, tell me already!"
"You left your portrait with us."
Nettle nodded slowly, "yes, I did. I didn't mean to. But surely you didn't come all this way to tell me that."
"I showed my father all the portraits, and he came across yours."
Nettle laughed nervously, "was he cross?"
"I thought he would be, but," Faramir took a deep breath, "rather he was quite interested in you."
"Me?"
"Yes, he found you rather refreshing, and he's asked me to take you with me, to...be his bride."
Nettle's eyes widened, a feat that seemed nearly impossible, given how large they already were. Her hands clenched into fists.
"WHAT?!"
"Think about it...you would have food and shelter and access to anything you want! We have our very own apothecary, and I could teach you how to ride horses. Minas Tirith is a beautiful city."
"Well I wouldn't mind going for a visit, but there is no way that I am marrying your father- the Steward of Gondor. He is a grumpy old man, I have no desire to be with him!" Nettle was practically roaring.
"AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO DECIDE THAT FOR ME! I have a place with my people. They are dying, and they are all I have left."
"I'm sorry, Nettle. It wasn't my decision. I tried to stop him. But I think it would be best if you came with me. Ever since my mother died, things have been different for my father. He has become increasingly more irrational. If you refuse his proposal, I fear for what will happen to you or your people."
"Your lack of confidence in your father is unnerving," Nettle muttered, "and this is all too much. But if I have no choice, then I will come with you. But I will be a terrible wife, and I won't love him."
Faramir bowed his head once more.
"And he won't love me," Nettle added, drawing attention to the absurdity of the request.
"It's alright, he doesn't love many things," Faramir's stormy eyes clouded over.
He held out his hand for Nettle to take, she gave him a look of distaste, but clutched it tightly and desperately.
A/N: Alright, there it is! Obviously this is just a work in progress: I'm still playing around with things, and I may go back and change things. Suggestions/advice/compliments, etc. are all accepted and encouraged!
Thanks!