The grass ripples under the horse's hooves like an emerald sea. Zac breathes deeply, his lungs filling with the brisk air of Eriador, so different from the suffocating atmosphere of Mordor's depths. Sunlight caresses his face, illuminating his eyes where a silvery and golden gleam now shines, remnants of his communion with the Music of the Ainur. The world feels new to him, as if he were discovering it for the first time: every color more vivid, every sound sharper, every sensation heightened. He savors this moment of peace, aware just how rare such instants are in a world where the shadow is steadily creeping.
His horse, an aging but sturdy beast, moves at a steady pace along the path that winds through gentle hills. Its grey flanks bear the scars of a life of toil, but its gait remains proud. Zac strokes its neck affectionately.
"You still have good years ahead of you, my friend," he murmurs. "As do I."
It has now been several weeks since he left the cursed lands of Mordor. The memory of his escape from the depths is engraved in his mind like a scar, not painful, but ever-present, a constant reminder of all he has endured and overcome. The transformation he underwent is not merely physical. Indeed, his body has grown leaner, his features sharper, almost Elven in their perfection, and his hair, deep black, now cascades to the middle of his back. But the most profound change is inside.
An intense peace fills him, flooding every fiber of his being with a tranquil wisdom that amazes those he meets. Wherever he lays his eyes, he now perceives echoes of the Music of the Ainur, that primordial melody which shaped Arda. In the flight of a bird, the curve of a river, the profile of a mountain, he perceives the notes of that cosmic symphony of which he is now a part.
His gaze drifts to the horizon. To the east, Weathertop, Amon Sûl in Elvish, rises in the distance, a silent sentinel amid the morning mist. He knows ruins are there, remnants of a watchtower built by Elendil himself in the Second Age. That is his destination, driven by a curiosity no longer that of a simple traveler, but of a witness to history.
His thoughts drift to the people he has met since his liberation. His first contact with civilization after his ordeal remains vivid in his memory.
It was in Ithilien, that borderland struggling against Mordor's corrupting influence. He'd found an isolated hamlet, a handful of rustic houses inhabited by families either too stubborn or too poor to flee the growing shadow. He still recalls the wary faces that met him when he appeared, covered in the grime of the depths, dressed in black rags, his eyes shining with a supernatural light.
A farmer, a robust man with calloused hands and a hard stare, pointed a pitchfork at him.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he demanded, his voice trembling despite his aggressive stance.
Zac spoke then, and his voice, transformed by the Music, instantly soothed the atmosphere. He told them a softened version of his journey, omitting the horrors of the depths and speaking only of his escape from Mordor. He did not need to lie: his mere presence, his luminous gaze, and his melodious voice were enough to inspire trust.
The village was terrorized by wild beasts, not ordinary wolves or boars, but creatures corrupted by Mordor's shadow: wolves with gleaming yellow eyes and fur as black as night, boars with grotesquely overgrown tusks and hides pocked by unhealthy growths. They attacked livestock, and sometimes reckless children.
Zac agreed to help. The decision was not motivated by heroism or altruism, but by something deeper, an intimate understanding that all life is part of the Music, and that corruption is a dissonance that must be resolved.
He tracked the beasts to their den, a shallow cave in the foothills of the Ephel Dúath. There, armed with his mithril sword, one he'd forged himself in the depths, he confronted them. He did not fight with the blind brutality that once defined him, but with a fluid, precise grace. Each blow was an act of mercy, freeing the creatures from their tormented existence. The blade sang in the air, an extension of his arm, slicing through corrupted flesh with disconcerting ease.
When he returned to the village, covered in the beasts' black blood but entirely unscathed, the residents hailed him as a savior. He refused their offers of feasts and celebration. Instead, he sat with the elders and spoke.
"You cannot remain here," he told them gently. "The shadow is spreading. What you have witnessed is only the beginning."
Some nodded, recognizing the wisdom of his words. Others remained obstinate, refusing to abandon land their families had farmed for generations.
"We cannot leave," insisted a woman with gnarled hands and a proud look. "This land is ours. We will defend it to the end."
Zac did not argue. He knew that some people are like trees, their roots sunk so deep in the earth they would rather die where they stand than be transplanted. He respected that choice, even as he understood its futility in the long run.
For those who chose to leave, he gave advice on the safest routes to the lands closer to Minas Tirith, where Gondor's protection was more tangible. He told them of signs to watch for, shelters to find, perils to avoid.
Among those who stayed was a horse breeder, a taciturn man with clear eyes who had scarcely spoken during the discussions. The next morning, as Zac was about to set off on foot, the man came to him, leading a grey horse.
"His name is Ash," he said simply. "He's old, but faithful. He'll carry you far."
Zac tried to refuse, fully aware of the value of such a gift, but the man shook his head stubbornly.
"You saved my animals," he insisted. "And perhaps my daughter. Take him."
Thus Zac gained his travel companion. Ash proved exactly as his previous owner described, old but sturdy, with a stamina that belied his weary appearance. Together, they made their way along the winding roads of Ithilien, at times stopping in isolated hamlets to offer help and advice, before pressing on westward.
The memory of these encounters brings a smile to Zac's lips as he leads Ash around a boulder in the path. The horse nickers softly, as if sensing his rider's thoughts.