The path descends gently toward the heart of the valley. Zac urges Ash forward, but the horse needs no encouragement. He too seems drawn to the light and peace that flow from this place. His gait, heavy after the long day's journey, lightens as if returning to his younger days.
As they approach, the details of Rivendell come into sharper focus. Zac sees statues of striking beauty, fountains whose waters seem to sing, gardens filled with plants he has never encountered before. And everywhere, that peculiar light, as if the very air is infused with the memory of the Two Trees.
The mystery shrouding Zac only thickens the veil of uncertainty that hangs over the future. But for now, the Abyssal Pilgrim simply savors this moment of grace, aware that soon he will have to confront truths he may not yet be ready to share.
They venture deeper into the valley, following a paved path winding among ancient trees. The light here is almost tangible, a golden mist that softens the world's contours. Zac drinks in each detail with serene hunger: the sculptures seeming to emerge naturally from tree trunks, the intricate patterns carved into the stone walkways, the fountains whose waters play tunes forgotten by the outside world. Every step carries him further into this sanctuary of peace; every breath cleanses a little more of the darkness that once clung to him.
Gandalf strides ahead with unhurried confidence, knowing this way as one knows a dear old friend's face. He glances sideways at Zac from time to time, noting the wonder that has yet to leave his companion's features since their arrival. There is something almost childlike in this fascination, a vivid counterpoint to the ancient wisdom in Zac's eyes.
A clear, crystalline laugh suddenly breaks the contemplative quiet. Then another, deeper and more musical, followed by an amused exclamation. The sounds come from a garden below, partly hidden by a marble colonnade twined with autumn-red vines.
Zac pauses, drawn to these voices. The contrast is striking: two distinctly Elvish, feminine voices, and a third, that of a human child, erupting in a cascade of mischievous laughter. Almost without thinking, he approaches the edge of the path overlooking the garden, transfixed by this simple scene of life that, after his long exile in horror, seems nothing short of extraordinary.
Below lies a marvel of Elven design, neither wholly wild nor strictly ordered, but existing in that perfect balance which marks each creation of the Firstborn. Flower beds of gold and silver petals bloom around a pool of clear water reflecting the sky. Trees with silver bark stretch protective boughs, their leaves whispering in the gentle breeze.
At the center of it all stand three figures. The first is immediately recognizable as the very embodiment of Elven grace: Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people. Hers is a living legend, long black hair framing a face of almost painful perfection. She is laughing, face lifted to the sky, hands extended toward a young boy.
The child, about ten years old, is perched precariously on a low branch. His grey eyes sparkle with mischief, and his tousled black hair betrays a morning spent running and climbing. He holds what seems to be an old book, deliberately keeping it just out of Arwen's reach. His young face already bears the mark of a nobility that cannot be hidden, not even beneath the playful features of youth.
"Estel, give that book back this instant!" Arwen says, her stern tone belied by the smile dancing on her lips.
"Not until you promise to tell me the tale of Beren and Lúthien," the boy bargains, edging further along the branch with feline agility.
At that moment, the third figure steps forward, emerging from the shadow of a tree where she had seemed content to remain apart. And for Zac, time stands still.