Zac and his mount had traveled as far as Pelargir, Gondor's great port on the Anduin. The city was a shock to his newly sharpened senses, a symphony of sounds, scents, and colors after weeks spent in the wilds. Majestic, sail-clad ships lined the docks, unloading goods brought from southern lands. Merchants shouted the virtues of their wares, sailors sang salty ballads, and children darted between the stalls with laughter.
Zac felt both overwhelmed and exhilarated by this surge of life. He wandered the paved streets, soaking in an existence so unlike the solitude he'd known. His appearance drew curious looks, his tattered clothes starkly contrasted with the nobility of his features and the light shining in his eyes.
He made his way to the market, where he exchanged one of the jewels he'd recovered from the depths for a generous purse. The merchant, a corpulent man with ring-covered fingers, examined the gem with suspicion before his eyes widened.
"This is no ordinary stone," he whispered. "Where did you get it?"
"From a place few return from," Zac simply replied.
The man didn't press further, perhaps intimidated by the air of mystery that surrounded this strange customer. He offered a generous sum, which Zac accepted without bargaining, barely concerned by material value after his ordeal in the depths.
With the money, he bought all a traveler might need: sturdy clothes of soft leather and fine wool, provisions that would not spoil quickly, and equipment for his horse.
The contrast between his former and present appearance was striking. The black rags, steeped in the grime of the depths, were replaced with earth-toned garments, browns, greens, and greys, allowing him to blend into his surroundings. Only his cloak and his mithril sword, which he kept wrapped in cloth to hide its supernatural glow, hinted at his passage through the underworld.
Zac gently pulled the reins, slowing Ash as they crossed a small stream. Clear water chuckled joyfully among the stones, a crystalline melody that joined the symphony of the surrounding wilderness. He let his horse drink, taking the moment to admire the scenery.
The lands of Eriador stretched before him: a patchwork of open grasslands, groves, and soft hills. Blue mountains rose in the distance against a clear sky. It was an ancient land, steeped in history. Here, thousands of years before, the kingdoms of the Dúnedain had flourished, before war and time reduced them to scattered ruins.
Zac couldn't help but overlay his knowledge of Tolkien's world onto what he saw. He imagined the riders of Arnor journeying across these same plains, banners snapping in the wind. He saw in his mind the migrations of the Hobbits towards what would become the Shire, to the west. He thought of Elves who had once crossed these lands on their way to the Grey Havens and their long journey to Valinor.
He felt a profound connection to this history, not merely as a reader or time-traveler, but as someone who was now a true part of this world. He was no longer Zac the outsider, the soul cast adrift in a fictional universe. He was Zac, the Abyssal Pilgrim, reforged by trials and attuned to the Music of the Ainur.
His eyes found Weathertop drawing ever nearer, Amon Sûl, the Hill of Winds. A place heavy with meaning in Middle-earth's story. Here one of the seven palantíri, the seeing stones brought by Elendil and his sons from Númenor, had been kept. Here the Witch-King of Angmar destroyed the tower during his wars upon Arnor. Here, in a future not yet come, Frodo would be wounded by a Nazgûl.
Zac shivered despite the sun's warmth. He knew this world's future, at least in part. It was both a gift and a burden. Should he intervene? Could he change the course of events? Or was he destined only to witness, a note in the great Music whose score he already half knew?
These questions accompanied him as he returned to the road. He had no clear answers, not yet. But now, for the first time since arriving in this world, he possessed the luxury of peaceful reflection, without the constant threat of death or madness.
The sun began to set, painting the sky orange and purple. Zac sought a place to camp for the night. He found a small copse near another brook, a spot sheltered from the wind and partially hidden from view.
He dismounted Ash with a smoothness that spoke of his physical transformation. His movements now carried an almost supernatural grace, an economy of effort reminiscent of the Elves. He tended to his companion first, unburdening the saddlebags, brushing the horse with care, and tying him to a tree with a loose line so he could graze comfortably.
Then he prepared his own space. He lit a small fire, boiled water for an infusion of herbs gathered along the way, and took out a hunk of bread and cheese from his supplies. A simple meal, but one that filled him with immeasurable pleasure after years spent in the depths, where food was nonexistent.
Sitting by the fire, a steaming cup in hand, Zac watched as the first stars appeared in the darkening sky. Eärendil shone brightest, bearing the last Silmaril in his everlasting voyage across the heavens. Zac smiled at the thought, savoring the beauty of a myth that, in this world, was reality.
"Tomorrow, Amon Sûl," he murmured to Ash, grazing nearby. "Who knows what we will find there?"
The horse briefly lifted his head, as if in understanding, before returning to his meal. Zac stretched out on his blanket, hands folded behind his head, letting his thoughts wander among the stars. Sleep came softly, without the brutality of exhaustion he once knew, and without the nightmares that used to haunt him. It was a peaceful, restorative rest, a simple luxury he cherished as the most precious of treasures.
The wind whispered in the leaves above, and somewhere in the distance a night bird called out. Zac drifted into slumber with a smile on his lips, cradled by the music of Arda, a melody of which he was now a harmonious note.