Elrond's great hall is a haven of peace, bathed in the silvery light of the moon filtering through tall arches that open onto the valley. Gentle melodies, played on invisible harps, seem woven directly into the very air. Following Gandalf, Zac feels overwhelmed by the beauty and serenity of the place. Every stone, every sculpted column, every tapestry vibrates with ancient history. He is a pilgrim from the abyss, a soul reforged by violence, and this place is the antithesis of all he has known. His heart, accustomed either to the silence of fear or the racket of battle, is soothed by this harmony.
At the center of the hall, seated upon a finely wrought wooden chair, awaits the Lord of Imladris. Elrond Peredhel, the Half-elven, is unlike any being Zac has ever encountered. His face betrays no definite age, yet his gaze carries the weight of millennia. His grey eyes are wells of wisdom, windows onto ages no living man has seen. He rises as they approach, imposing yet graceful, his presence effortlessly filling the space.
"Mithrandir," he greets Gandalf, his melodious voice carrying echoes of ancient seas. "Your return is most welcome."
"Lord Elrond," Gandalf replies, bowing his head. "Thank you for receiving us. The roads are long, and the tidings many."
Standing before Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, Zac feels a still deeper respect. The Elf-Lord's face is a book where the wisdom of Ages, the sorrow of uncounted losses, and a kindness neither naïve nor weak are all written. His features belong as much to a warrior and a healer as to a king and a father. He radiates a calm authority that asks not for submission, but inspires honesty.
Zac is seized by a powerful urge to speak frankly, to lay down his burdens, to recount his odyssey through the depths and his rebirth by the Music of the Ainur. Yet he restrains himself, revealing that he comes from another world, that he knows their future as if it were already written, would be madness, a dissonance that might shatter this fragile peace. Who would believe him? Who would not suspect him of being an agent of the Enemy, sowing confusion and lies?
Elrond's gaze fixes on him, scrutinizing, but not hostile. He studies Zac as one would a text written in a nearly familiar language, searching for meaning.
"And who is your companion, Mithrandir?" he asks at last, though his eyes never leave Zac. "I perceive in him a light not found in ordinary Men, nor even among the Dúnedain."
Before Gandalf can reply, Elrond addresses Zac directly. But the words that leave his lips are not Westron, the Common Tongue. They are fluid, musical syllables, a cascade of sound that dances in the air like autumn leaves borne on the breeze.
"Man esselya ná, edhel úmahalmë? Man i nórë tulessë?" (What is your name, stranger of strange radiance? From what land do you come?)
Assailed by these thoughts, Zac answers instinctively. The words flow from him with a fluency he did not know he possessed. Sindarin pours from his lips as if it had always lived there, each syllable perfectly formed, each intonation flawless, as though he were a native speaker.
"Essenya Zac ná. Túlen haiyallo, nórello mornë mi ahyar i ambar." (My name is Zac. I come from far away, from a land of darkness beyond the bounds of the world.)
Only after speaking does he freeze, breathless, startled, dizzy, realizing he has understood and spoken a language he never truly learned. In his former life he knew little Sindarin, just a few phrases gleaned from books, spoken awkwardly like so many Tolkien enthusiasts. But this… this is different. The words did not come from memory, but from somewhere far deeper, as if the Elvish tongue were now woven into the very structure of his new being.
Under Gandalf's curious gaze, Zac realizes his transformation is deeper and stranger than he ever imagined, making him an enigma not only to others, but most of all to himself.
Elrond draws back a little, his eyebrows rising in rare surprise. He glances at Gandalf, who observes the scene with evident interest.
"Your pronunciation is that of Gondolin," Elrond remarks, returning to Westron. "An inflection I have only heard from those who lived in the Hidden City before its fall. How is this possible?"
Gondolin. Again that name, haunting him. Guilt rises in his throat, but he swallows it. This is not the moment to become lost in labyrinths of conscience.
"I have… known ancient places, Lord Elrond," Zac replies carefully. "I have walked the valleys of shadow and wandered in realms where time is not a river, but a swamp."
Gandalf steps closer to Elrond, his gaze intent on Zac, and murmurs, "Our friend is a puzzle, Elrond. That is why I brought him to you. He bears a light I cannot comprehend, speaks tongues he should not know, and seems to possess wisdom beyond his years."
"You suspect him of being a servant of the Enemy?" Elrond asks, never breaking his penetrating gaze.
"If that were so, he would not have passed Imladris's borders," Gandalf answers. "No, I do not think him evil. But his very existence is… unexpected."
Elrond nods slowly, then gestures gracefully to seats arranged in a circle beside an arch. "Come, let us sit. Your journey has been long, Zac, and your secrets weigh heavy. Perhaps here, in Imladris's peace, some of them might be shared without danger."
Zac follows the two sages, acutely aware that every word he speaks now must be chosen with utmost care. He cannot reveal everything, but he cannot keep everything hidden either. Enough of the truth to win their trust, but not enough to threaten the fragile flow of fate.
As he settles across from Elrond, the moonlight illuminating his face, he steels himself to walk a path between truth and omission, hoping the Elf-lord's wisdom will recognize the sincerity within the necessary shadows.