The Nettle of Gondor
Chapter Two
Author's Note:
I hope you enjoy chapter two! Please leave advice/suggestions, etc.!
"I can't believe this is happening," Nettle breathed heavily.
Her fingers shook as she attempted to tie the strings on the bag Faramir had lent her.
"Is that everything?" Faramir prompted, ignoring Nettle's comment.
"Yes," she muttered, avoiding the Captain's eyes.
All that she had left were a few containers of herbs and plants, and her cloak.
Faramir held out his hand for Nettle to take.
She stared at the delicate embroidery on his sleeves. He was wearing a tunic which was stormy grey- like his eyes, with white detailing that resembled tiny vines creeping across his arm.
"My Lady?"
Nettle raised her face, meeting Faramir eye's, her own eyes ablaze.
"I'm not a Lady," she corrected him cooly, "I'm a healer; a peasant. Nothing you can do will change my attitude, Faramir."
"Why does it bother you so?" Faramir sighed in distress, "I know he isn't the ideal partner...," he saw the hostile look Nettle flashed him, "alright, he's an old man, and no, he isn't very pleasant, but there is good in this too!"
"How so?"
"You will be living in Minas Tirith! Anything you want, you will have. You won't even have to spend much time with my father. This whole idea is just for the sake of his image and his happiness. And, most importantly, you will be safe."
"Safe?!" Nettle spat, "Do you think I care about my own safety? Do you see these people Faramir?"
Nettle gestured to the scattered group of people who lived with her in the refuge.
"They are weak and vulnerable, and they need me. If I leave them, I'm a selfish coward, who cared more about wearing gowns and tiaras, than looking after the only people who care for me."
The waves, in the seas of Faramir's eyes, crashed.
"You are no coward, Nettle," he assured her.
"Why should I trust your judgment?"
"Because I've been called a coward my whole life," Faramir put thoughtfully.
His gaze lingered, but then he looked away, as if he regretted what he'd said.
"Now come along."
Nettle had never seen anything like Minas Tirith.
"Well, what do you think?" Faramir asked her.
Nettle was sitting in front of Faramir on his horse. She'd never ridden a horse before, and felt slightly nauseous.
They were about a quarter of a league from the gates of Minas Tirith, and Nettle was speechless.
"It...it's big," was all she could manage, cursing herself for sounding naive and unintelligent.
Faramir chuckled, "It is indeed."
"But I don't belong here," Nettle added hastily.
"You feel that way now," Faramir shrugged, "but things may change. You're still young."
"What does my age have to do with anything?" Nettle grumbled.
"A young girl of your age shouldn't be tied to anything. You should be able to have adventures."
Nettle snorted.
"You say I shouldn't be tied, but you're the one doing the tying."
Faramir smiled softly, "Another thing: watch that tongue of yours around my father. He won't appreciate it."
Nettle thought up a clever retort, but held it back, noting the conviction in Faramir's voice.
"And here we are!"
Faramir lifted Nettle off of the horse they'd shared, and set her down in front of the gates to Minas Tirith.
"Will I be given new clothes?" Nettle found herself asking, looking down at her tattered robes.
"Yes, of course," Faramir smiled faintly, "you will be presented to my father, as you are, however."
"What?" Nettle snapped, staring at Faramir in disbelief, "I look terrible."
"I thought you didn't care about appearances," Faramir teased.
Suddenly, the grand gates to Minas Tirith were opened, and Faramir's men lead their horses forward, into the city.
"I care about impressions," Nettle corrected her companion, her lips set firmly, and her eyes glittering with anticipation.
Nettle found herself fidgeting, as she anxiously awaited her entrance to her future husband's throne room.
She was standing just outside the door, Faramir at her side. She noticed the faint smile of comfort and brave face that the young Captain had sported for her sake, had now melted into a look of cool discontent.
No longer able to find strength in Faramir, she glanced down at the cold stone floor. She closed her eyes and took a sharp breath.
Images and memories swirled around Nettle's mind, and she suddenly pictured a face she hadn't seen in a long time.
The kind old eyes, and the strings of greying hair, were that of a man named Melleryn, who had been her mentor and dear friend, before he'd died, years ago.
She wondered what he would tell her to do, if he'd still been alive. But she struggled to imagine his response. This was all too sudden; too bizarre. How could she be a Stewardess?
"M'lord Denethor," Nettle heard a member of Faramir's guard mutter, through the dignified doors of pale wood, "Captain Faramir has arrived, with your betrothed."
Nettle heard a grunt in response, and light-footed footsteps.
She snapped her head back, and wiped her sweaty palms on her traveling cloak.
She looked to Faramir one last time, but he refused to make eye contact, and clasped his hands together in front of him.
"Captain," the guard held open the doors, and Faramir strode forward with determination.
Nettle, still unsure what to do, slipped past the guard and stood at Faramir's side.
Another guard cleared his throat.
"I present: Lord Stewart Denethor II, Lord of Gondor, and Minas Tirith."
Denethor sat back in his throne, a look of disinterest permanently moulded to his aging face. He had dark beady eyes, pale skin like weathered ivory, and a nose: pointed and proud. To top it off, he had a dreadful scowl.
"So, you've returned," the lord did not face his son, as he spoke to him.
"Yes, father," Faramir stared straight forward, at the stone wall behind his father's throne. His tempestuous eyes showed pain and anger, but the rest of his face remained emotionless and stiff.
"May I present Nettle of Anórien," Faramir added awkwardly. He glanced at Nettle, in her ragged robes, seeming almost embarrassed. Nettle felt heat rise to her cheeks. She couldn't help that she looked like a peasant; until these last few days, she had been a peasant.
Denethor shifted in his seat, finally turning his shadowy eyes to his audience. He wore dark green robes with silver lining.
"So this is the girl from the portrait," he muttered.
Nettle refused to be a made a fool of. Denethor had chosen her of his own accord; he knew that she was not a noble girl. She shouldn't feel ashamed of where she'd come from. She'd been a healer; a leader.
She stood tall, and held her chin high.
"Not as pretty in person," the Steward commented casually, "rather skinny."
That's because I've been nearly starved to death, you simple fool, Nettle thought.
"But she is the girl you requested," Faramir pointed out. His hands were still clasped tightly.
"Yes...I suppose she is," Denethor croaked.
He stood, and Nettle could see that he was much taller than he'd appeared, and slender in body, like Faramir.
He stepped down from his throne, and approached Nettle.
Nettle was tall for her gender, but seemed a mouse, compared to the great lord.
She maintained her solemn composure as she was inspected.
"You say your name is Nettle?" The older man sneered.
"Yes, my Lord," Nettle bit back any rude comment that came to mind.
"What kind of name is that?"
"My name," Nettle countered.
Faramir sucked in air, and blew it out. Denethor remained silent.
"My lord," Nettle added as an afterthought.
"Well I don't like it," Denethor decided. He turned around and marched back to his throne.
"I can't change my name," Nettle was aghast.
"Well I can," Denethor sighed, "Unless you mean to tell me that that's the name your parents gave you."
Nettle clamped her mouth shut. She didn't know the name that her parents had given her. Melleryn had called her Nettle since she was a young girl.
"From here out, you shall be called Raeneth. It means, more or less, 'Nettle'."
Nettle's eyes widened in protest.
"I could always call you Thistle," Denethor suggested.
Nettle remained silent.
"Faramir, bring her to her chambers. We'll discuss the wedding plans tomorrow."
Faramir moved to grab Nettle, but she moved.
"Lord Denethor," she spat, "you can marry me, you can bed me, you can impregnate me with little lords, you can kill me, if you wish, and dance upon my grave. But I am Nettle, and I always will be, whatever you will call me. I was a leader once, and I saved people's lives. I will not forget that."
Denethor chuckled darkly, looking deep into Nettle's eyes.
"You truly are the nettle of Gondor. Keep quiet, or I'll replace you with someone prettier and quieter."
Nettle felt rage building in her, but she knew that, for the sake of her people, she could say no more.
A/N: Well, I hope you liked this chapter! I'm not perfect, and, as much as I wish I was, I'm not a Tolkien scholar. So please don't be rude! Constructive criticism helps a lot, and so do reviews! Both Raeneth and Melleryn are Sinadian-formatted names, they're not just made up. Thanks!