Chapter One: The Tree of Gondor

The wind whipped around Mara as she followed Terin and Meris to the river where they had made their discovery. It wasn't far, but long enough that one couldn't run there without having to stop and catch your breath. The children, racing ahead, were leading the way, nervous but excited at the same time. Mara, on the other hand, wasn't exactly sure she wanted to see what it was they had found. She had seen death too many times in her lifetime, and would rather have nothing to do with it every again. But, if there was a body by the river, it would need to be dealt with, and she wasn't one to turn a blind eye to need.

Making their way down to the banks of the Anduin, the landscape changed from one of grassy fields, to a small hedgerow of trees. Ducking beneath the branches, Meris called out, "He's just over here, mother!"

Taking a deep breath of fresh, cool air, Mara moved aside a branch and found herself standing in a clearing of muddy sand leading to the river. She stepped forward cautiously, readying herself for what she was about to see.

"Mother! Mother! Here!" Terin called.

Turning to her right, she saw the children motioning her over. They moved aside and it was then she saw him. Laying face up in the sand, soaking wet from being in the water was a man, his skin pale, almost white. Walking slowly, she moved towards him. He was a powerful man, that much was obvious: big, tall, broad shouldered, a strong chest. Reluctantly, she moved closer still until she was just feet away. His dusty blond hair and bold features handsome even in death. Terin had been correct. He must be someone of importance, his clothing not that of a peasant. A soldier of Gondor he must be judging from the tree carved into the braces he wore around his forearms.

"Do you think he's dead, Mama?" Meris asked, coming up to her and taking her hand, sadness in her little voice.

Mara sighed. "It certainly looks it," she said softly. Kneeling down next to the man, she reached out to touch him, but pulled back a bit nervously. The man looked like a statue of a king of old, regal, powerful. Gathering up her courage she reached out and brushed a lock of wet, sandy hair from his forehead. He was cold, feeling his cheeks, a small frown formed on her face. Laying her head down on his massive chest, feeling the wet leather against her cheek, she listened. She listened for something…anything to show that this man was not dead. That there was some hope. There was nothing.

Turning to her children, their eyes anxiously awaiting for word, she shook her head. "I don't think there's anything we can do, my darlings. He's gone."

Tears welled up in Meris's big blue eyes and fell down her cheeks. "Are you sure, Mama?"

Mara looked back at the man covered in sand and mud, her own skirts wet and heavy now from sitting in the damp sand. "Please," she whispered. "Show me something, please. Don't really be dead." Mara's hands moved across the man's face, looking for some sign of life, a twitch, or a bit of color. Brushing back his hair, she bent over him, pressing her cheek against his. "Please," she begged, eyes closed, praying with everything she had.

She sat like that for minutes…waiting…thinking about how much death her children had already seen, how much death she had seen. It didn't seem fair that they would be put in this position again. And then she felt it. It was barely perceptible, but it was there, just enough for her to sense it: a slight beating of a pulse, a hint of warmth in his cheek.

Moving her lips to his cold cheek, she pressed them to it. "Thank you," she sighed, relief filling her being. "Thank you."

Turning back to the anxious children, Mara called to them, "Terin, we need to get him to the house. Go find a blanket and we'll drag him up there!"

"You mean?" Meris asked, her little hands clasped, too unsure to be excited yet.

"Yes," Mara smiled. "There may be some hope!"

"Yeah!" The little girl jumped up and down, throwing her arms in the air, and running around in circles. "I told you, Terin! I told you!"

Standing, Mara came to the children, nearly being knocked off her feet when Meris ran towards her, wrapping her arms around her mother in a huge hug. "But we need to get him warm and safe. We don't know what type of injuries he has so we have to hurry."

Nodding, Terin grabbed Meris' hand and the two made their way quickly back to the house.

Alone, Mara looked back at the man's lifeless body. She had no idea what she was supposed to do now. All she knew was that if there was any hope at all, she would help him.

It took until nightfall for them to get the man's body back to the cottage. With just the three of them, it was hard enough to get the blanket under him, and even harder to pull him the entire way to the house.

Once there, Mara decided to make a sick bed in the main room of the small house next to the fire where he could be warm. With the children's help, she piled up blankets and straw mattresses on the floor until they could get him on the makeshift bed. It was difficult work, but not once did the children complain. They were anxious to help in whatever way they could.

Finally it was time for the children to go to bed. Mara knew the work she needed to do next would better be done alone. She needed to get the man out of his wet clothes, and take a good look at what kind of injuries he had sustained. The arrow wounds were obvious enough, but she didn't know what else there might be, or how extensive. Needless to say, the children didn't need to see that.

"But Mama," Meris complained. "What if he wakes up and we're asleep?"

"I will come and get you," she assured the child.

"Come on, Meris," Terin said, his voice quiet. "You need to learn to listen."

Pouting, Meris made her way back to the bedroom where she and Terin shared a bed, stomping her feet the whole way. Mara shook her head, too tired to laugh.

Next to her Terin's voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you really think you can save him, mother?"

Taking his hand, she turned to him. He had gotten so big. She could almost meet him eye to eye. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "I'll do what I can, but…it may be too late," she told him honestly.

The young man nodded somberly. "I understand. I know you'll do your best." Giving her a quick hug, he followed after his sister.

With the children safely asleep, Mara rolled up her sleeves and got to work. Pulling her hair back, she studied the man again, the large fire making the room extremely warm. He looked to be in his forties, but was extremely fit. There wasn't an inch of fat on him that she could tell.

She started with the leather belt around the waist, removing it and the greaves about his arms decorated with the famous tree of Gondor, placing everything aside, so she could keep it safe for him if…she corrected himself…when he got better. She then removed his leather vest, the material heavy from being wet for so long. After unlacing the red and gold trimmed tunic she was able to get a better look at what had happened to the man.

The arrows had pierced through the mail armor he wore, the rings of the mail, broken and torn. It must have been very strong arrows that would have penetrated chain-mail like this, she thought to herself.

Lifting him up as best she could, she unlaced the mail tunic in the back hefting his heavy form and pulling it off of him. She laid the chain mail on the floor next to the rest of his things. She would put them away safely later. Taking one of the heavy wool blankets next to her, she laid it across him. He was still cold and lifeless, but every once in awhile there would be a small spark, a slight beat of his pulse, a glimmer of life inside. She knew she couldn't give up now.

Pulling off his leggings, she covered him up for modesty's sake in one of the warm blankets, hoping to get him warm again. She then grabbed a small, sharp knife and cut off his undershirt. What she saw took her breath away. There were three ragged puncture marks along his chest and abdomen, black and crusted over with dried blood. Radiating from the three wounds were large streaks of purple. Poison she assumed…and poison, meant orcs.

Mara had only seen an orc once in her life. A man from the village had killed one when she was a child, and had brought the body back to show off to everyone. Never before had she seen anything like it, the grotesque body twisted and evil, looking as if it had been baked in a fire and then set out in the sun to dry. She had never felt true evil before that day. If this strong, powerful man had been taken down by orcs, then it must have been quite a battle.

Taking a rag, she dipped it in the boiling water above the fire. Cringing a bit at the scolding heat, she placed the cloth directly on each wound, letting it stay there a few moments, cleaning the outside of the wound and opening up fresh, pink, raw skin. She paused, thankful that the man was as unconscious as he was.

She repeated the process again and again until the areas were clean and red. Then, mixing up a poultice of herbs, she slathered it on each wound generously; laying a thick piece of muslin across his chest, hoping that the mixture would draw out the poison and facilitate healing.

Covering him up with another wool blanket she sat back and sighed, looking him over. There was nothing to do now, but wait.

Leaning up against the wall next to him, Mara closed her eyes, hoping to get some rest, but knew that none would come. Truth be told, she didn't want to sleep. Rest brought nothing but terrors and fear, visions of the past that would forever haunt her. Putting away those thoughts, she stood, going to the fire place and taking the pot of water from the fire. With a clean, wet rag she began to wipe the sand and dried mud of the man, taking great care with his arms and neck. Washing away all of the grime, revealing skin that was once bronzed and alive.

Slowly, methodically, she moved to his face, running the warm cloth over his rugged features, memories of another time, another man she had done this for. A man she couldn't save. With tears in her eyes, she moved to his sandy hair, coated with mud. Taking the cloth, she washed the dirt from his hair, trying to remember that this was not a man she was preparing for burial, but one that could be saved. Humming a tune she had learned as a child, she worked slowly, her hands gently working through his hair. There she stayed, almost too afraid to hope.