"I am Zac," he replies simply to Gandalf. His voice carries a subtle harmony, as if each word is a precise note within a larger melody. "And you are Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim."
A flicker of surprise crosses the wizard's gaze. It is not the use of his Elvish name that astonishes him, many know him thus, but the way this stranger pronounces it, with a familiarity that suggests a deeper knowledge than mere repetition of heard legends.
"You seem to know me," Gandalf observes, "but I do not recall meeting you." His memory, vast as the ages of the world, searches for a similar face, a presence matching this man's. Nothing comes. "Where do you come from?"
Zac smiles faintly. "A long and dark journey, one that led me through places few have seen and fewer still have returned from." He chooses his words carefully, neither lying nor revealing the full truth. "I traversed the depths and emerged transformed."
Gandalf furrows his brow. His eyes narrow, scrutinizing not only Zac's appearance but what lies beneath, an essence his mage's gaze can perceive. He senses a power in this man, not raw or menacing, but harmonious, almost musical. It reminds him… no, it is impossible. Only the Ainur bear within them the pure melody of creation. Yet…
"You speak in riddles," Gandalf finally says. "And I cannot tell if you are an ally or yet another piece in the dark game unfolding upon these lands."
"I am no servant of the Enemy," Zac answers with quiet conviction. "I have seen his work up close, and I desire only to oppose his corruption. But I understand your mistrust. Were I in your place, I would be equally cautious."
A silence settles between them, thick with unasked questions and half-revealed truths. Ash nickers softly, as if to break the tension.
"Your companion seems impatient," Gandalf notes with a slight smile. "Where are you headed, mysterious traveler?"
"Where I might be of use," Zac replies. "I possess certain… knowledge that could serve in the troubled times to come."
These words, spoken with serene certainty, awaken fresh curiosity in the wizard. Gandalf is a weaver of events, a catalyst seeking to influence history's course without overt interference. He recognizes in Zac a kindred spirit, perhaps someone who understands the subtleties of fate and the dangers of excessive meddling.
"I am bound for Rivendell," Gandalf finally announces. "Elrond's house. If your intentions are as pure as you claim, perhaps you will find answers there… or questions more fitting than mine."
Zac inclines his head slightly. "Rivendell." He utters the name with reverence, as if invoking a place of legend. "I would see the Last Homely House east of the sea."
Gandalf raises an eyebrow at this reference but does not comment. "Then we may travel together, if it suits you. The road is long, and shadows lengthen over these lands. Even a traveler as… unique as yourself might welcome company."
"It would be an honor, Mithrandir."
As they resume the road side by side, Zac feels the weight of Gandalf's gaze. The wizard studies him intently, seeking to unravel the mystery of this stranger with luminous eyes. He does not suspect that Zac already knows his fate, his fall in the mines of Moria and his resurrection. He is unaware that this silent man could recount the broad outlines of coming events as if telling a story already written.
But Zac keeps this knowledge locked within, a dangerous treasure. He has learned, during his long stay in the abyss, that some truths are burdens too heavy to share. The fate of Middle-earth rests on a fragile balance, and even with the best intentions, altering it might bring more harm than good.
So he walks alongside the Grey Pilgrim, a new quiet player on Arda's chessboard, guided not by prophecy but by wisdom hard-earned in darkness.