Elrond rises from his seat, visibly taken aback. His hand reaches almost involuntarily toward the weapon, but halts a few centimeters from its shimmering surface.
"May I?" he asks, an unusual deference coloring his voice.
Zac nods and presents the sword, laid flat across his open palms.
Elrond receives it with reverence. His fingers glide along the blade, not to test its edge, but as a musician might caress the strings of a precious instrument.
"This weapon was not forged by mortal or Elven hands," he murmurs. "Not even the greatest smiths of Khazad-dûm or Eregion could have wrought such a marvel. The mithril sings under my fingers in a way I have never felt."
"I forged it myself," Zac explains, "with materials found in the depths. The heat of lava for the melting, the mystic water of a hidden waterfall for the tempering. But you are right, it is not my skill that gave it this essence. The Song itself guided my hands."
Gandalf approaches, his usually distant gaze drawn to the blade resting near Zac. He leans in, eyes narrowing under bushy brows, not to judge the man, but to wonder at the craft. The bluish-grey metal seems to drink in the moonlight, and the wizard immediately recognizes true-silver, mithril, but of a purity and brilliance unseen even in the finest treasures of Elf or Dwarf. The blade is not only made of a precious material, it's alive, perfectly balanced, its lines lethally simple.
"By the flame of Anor…" Gandalf whispers, almost to himself, then lifts his eyes to Zac, a new glint within them, an admixture of respect and concern. "Such a weapon is not merely a treasure; it is a destiny. The Enemy would covet it more than any fortress, for it holds a power, a purity able to oppose his corruption."
"It is not meant to take lives," Zac clarifies, "but to restore harmony where dissonance reigns."
Elrond returns the sword to him with evident respect. He exchanges a long glance with Gandalf, a silent conversation shared between two who have known each other for ages.
"We must speak in private," Elrond announces at last. "Your story raises questions that require thought." He gestures gracefully to an Elf who waits discreetly near an archway. "Lindir will show you around Imladris while we consult."
The Elf named Lindir inclines his head. Ageless beauty is written on his face, but his eyes betray a polite wariness. "It will be my honor," he says, though his voice lacks warmth.
Zac understands. He is an anomaly, a stranger bearing a light that should not belong to him. Mistrust is natural, even in this haven of peace.
His tour of Imladris proves ineffable. Lindir guides him through perfectly proportioned corridors where stone and wood blend into an architectural harmony that defies mortal reason. They cross the great library, where manuscripts older than entire kingdoms rest on shelves of living wood. The forges of Imladris are not noisy, stifling places, but melodic spaces where metal is persuaded, not forced, to take shape.
It is in the gardens that Zac feels the magic of the place most intensely. Beneath the stars, night-blooming flowers release fragrances that awaken memories he never possessed. The peace of this land is almost painful to a soul forged in suffering. His eyes fill with tears.
Lindir, a silent witness to his emotion, seems to soften just a little in his judgment. "Few corrupted hearts would weep at beauty," he murmurs, almost to himself.
When they return to the main hall, Gandalf and Elrond await them. Their faces are grave, but free of hostility.
"We leave at dawn," Gandalf announces without preamble. "Our road will be long and perilous."
Zac inclines his head without question. He had always known this peace would be fleeting.
Elrond steps forward, his tall figure bathed in the first light of dawn.
"Your path is dark, Zac, Pilgrim of the Abyss. Even to eyes as old as mine, your fate is veiled. But know this: Imladris will always welcome you."
He rests a hand on Zac's shoulder, a rare gesture from an Elven Lord to a mortal.
"Beware the echoes of the past that have not yet occurred. Knowledge is as heavy a burden as ignorance, and sometimes more dangerous still."
The words strike Zac like a physical blow. Has Elrond guessed the truth? Sensed what lies behind his careful omissions? But the Elf-lord's face remains unreadable, offering neither confirmation nor denial.
"Thank you for your hospitality and your wisdom, Lord Elrond," Zac replies, bowing deeply. "Your words resonate deeper than you may imagine."
As they prepare to leave the valley, Zac casts one last look towards the gardens where he glimpsed Elrenniel. His heart aches at leaving without having spoken to her, without exploring the strange bond he sensed. But he knows the time will come. In this world, where even the truths he thought immutable have become fluid, nothing is certain except change.
A fragile alliance is born today, forged in enigma and urgency. Wherever it leads, it has already altered the course of fate, sending ripples through the ages of Middle-earth.