The journey from Amon Sûl to Imladris takes many days, the landscape gradually transforming as they ride eastward. Gandalf and Zac travel side by side, sometimes wrapped in companionable silence, sometimes exchanging words that deftly skirt the questions that truly matter. The wizard speaks of innocuous things: the patterns of the weather, local tales, the habits of birds they spot along the way. Each seemingly innocent comment is carefully crafted to tease out a revealing answer from his mysterious companion. Zac responds with equal caution, never lying, yet never revealing the full extent of his knowledge, acutely aware of the delicate balance he must maintain in a world he knows too well but has never truly experienced.
"Do the stars speak to you, Zac?" Gandalf asks one night, as they sit by a campfire, the heavens arrayed in their glittering cloak above.
"They sing, Mithrandir," Zac replies, his eyes reflecting the starlight in a manner that is more than mere reflection, it is resonance. "They sing the melody of Arda, just as the streams, the trees, and the stones do."
Gandalf raises a bushy eyebrow, observing his companion with fresh interest. There's something in this answer that echoes the eldest Eldar, those who knew Valinor before the Ages of the Sun. And yet, this man is clearly no Elf, despite his grace and the light in his eyes.
Days pass, the broad plains giving way to wooded hills, then to steeper valleys where pines cling to the mountain slopes. Gandalf's initial wariness has softened, though it has not entirely disappeared. Zac exudes no malice, but his very existence is an anomaly the wizard cannot ignore.
At last the day arrives when they near the hidden valley of Imladris. They follow a narrow path winding between rocks, descending into a deep gorge where the roar of water can be heard long before the river comes into view. The air becomes gentler, more fragrant. Sunlight, filtered through leaves, paints dancing patterns on the ground.
Then Ash halts. Zac's horse shivers, ears pricked forward, as if sensing something beyond mortal perception. Zac does nothing to spur him on. He understands. Before them, the valley of Imladris is revealed at last, and the vision roots Zac to the spot in awe.
His breath catches. His eyes taking in the impossible beauty displayed before him. This is no illusion. Not some mirage born of despair, as Gondolin was during his phantom ascent from the depths. This is reality, in all its grace and harmony.
Rivendell lies cradled in the valley like a jewel set into bright living rock. The buildings, airy and elegant, seem to have grown up from the ground rather than having been built. Their gentle curves follow those of the land: pale stone, golden wood, sparkling glass, all catching and amplifying the sunlight. Graceful bridges span the streams, their arches defying ordinary physics. Terraces are layered along the slopes, edged with gardens where every blossom seems placed by deliberate intention, composing a harmony beyond compare.
The song of the waterfalls fills the air with constant music, a foundation over which other melodies play, the whisper of golden elm leaves, the faint chime of unseen bells, and, above all, the voices of Elves. Sometimes solitary, sometimes in impromptu choruses, their singing is always in harmony, as if each singer instinctively knows their place in an overarching symphony.
"Rivendell," murmurs Gandalf, a smile softening his usually austere features. "The Last Homely House east of the sea."
Zac does not reply. He cannot. His whole being vibrates in resonance with this place, like a string plucked by a master musician. In his mind, the echoes of the Music of the Ainur swell, here finding a physical form of purity he has never before encountered. He watches the Elves move through gardens and terraces, every motion a dance, every gesture living poetry. Their tall forms shimmer with an inner light, an echo, diminished but still visible, of the glory of the Firstborn.
For one who has crossed the utter horror of Mordor's depths, who has stared into the void and endured the conceptual torture of a prison meant to devour the soul, this vision is more than mere beauty. It is healing. Each moment spent gazing on Imladris erases some fragment of the corruption that tried to consume him. Each note of Elvish music realigns a dissonance within his soul.
His eyes well with tears that do not fall, not from sorrow, but from a gratitude so profound it transcends ordinary expression. For the first time since his eternity of suffering, he feels no need to be wary of beauty, to fear it as yet another cruel trap.
Gandalf watches his companion closely, noting each nuance of his response. Zac's face, usually marked by an almost supernatural composure, transforms under the weight of unfiltered emotion. There is something in this sudden vulnerability that reassures the wizard more than any word could.
'A servant of Darkness would feel only hatred and revulsion at such light,' Gandalf thinks. 'Corruption cannot bear the purity of Imladris.'
Yet the mystery remains. Where does this strange man come from, who bears within him a light possessed only by the eldest of the Eldar? What ordeal has he endured to gain this calm wisdom? Is he a weapon forged by some unknown power, an unexpected hope in the struggle against the growing Shadow, or the subtlest of snares?
Gandalf knows he does not have the answers. But he knows someone who might. Elrond Half-elven, Lord of Imladris, who has looked on three Ages of the world and whose wisdom is rivaled only by his insight. If anyone can unravel Zac's mystery, it is he.
"Come," Gandalf says softly, drawing Zac out of his reverie. "We are awaited."