Zac's sleep was restorative. For the first time in an eternity measured by thousands of deaths, Zac dreamed. There were no nightmares, no torturous memories, no whispers from the Entity. There was only silence, a deep, restorative, absolute silence. When he woke, it wasn't from shock or threat, but from the gentle insistence of a light he hadn't felt in ages.
He shrugged off his cloak, which fell loosely upon the ash, a simple fabric drained of all will. Blinking, his eyes adjusted to the harsh brightness. He stood at the edge of Mount Doom, but the landscape before him was no longer what he remembered. The last veil of illusion, the final echo of the First Age, had shattered with the death of his prison.
Before him was Mordor. The real Mordor. Sauron's Mordor.
The land was a wound of ash and black rock, but a living, festering wound. Acrid fumes rose from hundreds of forges carved into the mountain's flanks. Dark and straight roads split the Gorgoroth plain, swarming with columns of misshapen figures. In the distance stood a fortress, an iron and shadow spike hammered into the land's heart: Barad-dûr, the Dark Tower. It had not yet reached its monstrous final form, but its malice was already a tangible presence poisoning the air. The sky was not a dome of stone but a ceiling of eternal clouds, a blend of industrial smoke and despair suffocating the sunlight.
Understanding struck Zac, cold and relentless. The few years, maybe decades, he had perceived in the distorted time of the depths… had been thousands of years on the surface. He had emerged from his personal hell onto the threshold of another, one about to sweep over the world.
He had to depart. Discreetly.
His journey was a strange pilgrimage through misery. He descended the arid slopes of Mount Doom, his feet adapting to the bite of sharp rock. He skirted the dark roads, hiding behind boulders when Orc patrols approached. Their guttural growls, simian gait, and stench should have terrified him. But he felt nothing. No fear. It was a stroll compared to the conceptual horror of Ancalagon or the psychic agony of his former prison. He was a ghost in a land of shadows, invisible, not by magic, but by a serenity so deep it emitted no vibration of fear to attract attention.
For weeks, he walked, crossing desolate plains and climbing the foothills of the Ephel Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow. Hunger and thirst were constant companions, but he accepted them, no longer as suffering, but as reminders of his mortality.
At last, he crested the final ridge. The world changed.
The wind that greeted him was no longer laden with ash and despair but with the scent of damp earth and fresh grass. Before him stretched Ithilien, a stubborn, green wound that fought against Mordor's shadow. Trees with silvery leaves shivered in the breeze, wildflower beds dashed color upon a landscape that seemed painted by a repentant god.
Zac stopped and fell to his knees, not from exhaustion, but pure wonder. Reaching out, he touched a blade of grass. The sensation was simple, real, extraordinarily beautiful, and an emotion resurfaced that he'd believed long dead: joy. Pure, childlike joy flooded him. He burst into laughter, which became sobs, tears of gratitude running down his dirty cheeks.
He lay back in the grass, feeling the earth's coolness on his back and watching white clouds drift through a deep blue sky. He was in Arda. The true Arda. He savored every second of this newfound freedom, every lungful of clean air, every ray of sun on his skin.
He heard a sound he hadn't heard in ages: the murmur of a river. Drawn by that promise, he stood and followed it to a clear stream winding among rocks. He plunged his hands into the frigid water and drank, again and again, washing away the dust of ages. Then, he leaned forward to wash his face.
That's when he saw his reflection.
It was not his face. Not the one he remembered. His hair, once brown, was now midnight black, long and smooth. His body, once ordinary, was sculpted like an Elven statue, every muscle defined by pure grace, not brute strength. His eyes… He started, stepping back. His eyes glowed. They did not merely reflect the light; they contained it. A gentle, silvery and golden light, the very light of the Trees of Valinor, shone in his irises, a source of peace and infinite wisdom, in sharp contrast to a face that hadn't aged a day.
Confused, he leaned closer, staring at his reflection. And in the ripple of the water, he saw it. The interface. But it, too, had changed.
[Zac, the Pilgrim of the Abyss]
[Bearer's March]
[Healer's Hand]
[Flame of Anor]
There were no more numbers, no more progress bars. Only titles, only concepts. And below, the source of this miracle:
[Song of the Ainur: ACCOMPLISHED]
He understood. He had been brought back into harmony. He was no longer an echo of corruption, but a true note within the Great Music. He was healed.
His punishment was over. His true mission was only beginning.