The midday sun bathes the ruins of Amon Sûl in golden light, transforming the grey stones into amber sentinels set against the azure sky. Zac stands motionless at the summit, Ash tethered to one of the few structures still standing. His eyes, gleaming with that silver-and-gold light inherited from the Music of the Ainur, scan the horizon. He has not come here by chance. Echoes of events yet to happen at this very place ring in his memory, a future he knows but cannot share. Beneath his feet lies the history of Arnor, before him stretches the path of a fate he can only glimpse.
The Great East Road winds at the foot of the hill like a faded ribbon, meandering across Eriador's rolling plains. Zac knows it leads west toward Bree, then to the border of the Shire, names that exist for him, until now, only in the pages of a book from another life. But his gaze turns east, from where he awaits the one he knows will come.
Hours slip by as Zac waits, as still as the ancient stones around him. His patience is not that of a hunter, but of a man who understands the flow of time and knows that certain meetings are inevitable. The wind strokes his black hair, sending it dancing round features that border on Elven. His eyes, radiant with their unique silvery-golden light, survey the road below, searching for the arrival of a figure he knows though they've never met, a pilgrim in grey whose destiny is entwined with that of Middle-earth.
Ash nickers softly behind him, as if to signal a traveler's approach. Zac lays a calming hand on his mount's neck. He understands, he has chosen this time and this place with care, calculating the probabilities with the knowledge of a world studied from afar. This is before the Quest for Erebor, before the Dwarves rouse the dragon, before the Ring is found anew. A fragile moment where the course of history might yet be changed.
In the distance, along the dusty road, a silhouette emerges. An old man clad in grey, leaning on a gnarled staff. His broad-brimmed hat casts a shadow over his features, yet even from afar, his presence is imposing. He strides purposefully, as if each place he visits has awaited him for centuries.
Gandalf the Grey. Mithrandir, to the Elves. Tharkûn, among the Dwarves. Olórin in Valinor. The Istar sent by the Valar to counter Sauron's influence. An ancient, powerful being, yet bound by mortal form and by the strictures of his mission. Zac shivers, though not from intimidation, all he survived in Mordor's depths defeated fear. But he feels deep respect and anticipation. This is no ordinary meeting, it is a converging of destinies.
Gandalf stops abruptly. His keen gaze rises to the ruins where Zac waits. Even at this distance, the Istar perceives something unusual. Not a threat, but an anomaly: an unexpected note within the familiar melody of Arda. Something, or someone, not written into the grand score.
The wizard resumes his approach, though his stride now is measured and his grip on his staff subtly tighter. It is not mere wood, but a channel for his magic, a potential weapon. He ascends the path leading to Amon Sûl's crest, never once taking his eyes off the solitary figure watching him.
Zac descends the slope to meet him. There is a fluidity and grace to his movement, free of mortal heaviness. The sun caresses his face, lighting up the glow dancing in his eyes. He halts halfway, waiting for the wizard to cover the last distance between them.
"A strange place for a solitary traveler," Gandalf remarks as he stops a few steps away. His voice is deep, melodious, invested with quiet authority. His eyes, sharp beneath thick brows, study Zac with cautious curiosity. He notes the near-Elven features, the uncommon grace, and above all the light in the gaze, a light he's seen only in those who have beheld the Two Trees or their descendants. Yet this man is not an elf. "Who are you, you who bear the light of the Trees of Valinor in your eyes, but are not of the Eldar's race?"
Caught off guard by Gandalf's direct, insightful question, Zac draws a deep breath, feeling the weight of his past and legacy on his shoulders. The old wizard's words seem to leap across time's barriers to touch a hidden truth deep within him.