The road stretches ahead of them, winding through rolling hills dotted with patches of wildflowers. Zac rides slightly apart from the main group, his fingers absently tracing the cloth of his Shroud draped over his shoulders. The cloak moves in time with Ash's gentle stride, a simple piece of fabric to any casual observer. But Zac knows better. Since his emergence from the depths of Mordor, this once-living garment has grown still, silent, now only a shadow of its former glory. The realization chills him despite the spring air.
He runs his fingers along the worn edge, feeling the tight but now unremarkable weave. No more pulse under his touch. No resistance when he tries to remove it. No mystical merging with his weapons. The Shroud is now simply... cloth. Cloth with unusual strength, yes, but nothing more than a silent relic of old burdens.
The significance of this shift strikes him with brutal clarity. If the cloak is no longer bound to him, if its mystical qualities that made it almost alive have faded, what of the other aspects of his condition? The resurrection cycle that accompanied him in the depths, the ability to die and be reborn, again and again, has it vanished as well?
A cold, sharp truth establishes itself like an ice blade. Every step in this world is now definitive. Every threat can be fatal. Every fight could be the last.
Fear, that old enemy he believed mastered in Mordor's abysses, resurfaces, it slides into his veins, familiar and icy. He had faced Balrogs, titanic worms, the horror of Ancalagon himself, always certain that death was only a temporary inconvenience. Now?
A bitter, nearly silent laugh escapes his lips. The irony isn't lost on him, having survived countless deaths, only to fear the single death that awaits every mortal.
"Your mind is leagues away, my friend."
Gandalf's deep voice rouses him from his stupor. The wizard has slowed his mount to meet his stride, his piercing gaze shaded under bushy brows.
"A burden weighs on you, heavier than mere travel fatigue."
Zac looks up, suddenly aware of his own foolishness. Days beside one of the wisest beings in Middle-earth, and he hasn't once thought to ask advice about his condition.
"Mithrandir," he begins, his voice barely stronger than a whisper, "I need your wisdom."
The wizard waits, patient, his silence an invitation to continue.
"When I was among the Rangers, one was badly wounded." Zac recalls the scene, the black poison, bruised flesh, dark veins tracing a deadly path. "I laid my hand on his wound, and it closed. I... I don't know how."
He hesitates, searching for words. How to explain the light that sprang from his palms, the knowledge that passed through him, not his own?
"I do not understand these powers living within me."
Gandalf listens without blinking, his face impassive, but his eyes shine with unconcealed interest. He remains silent a long moment, as if weighing not only spoken words but those left in the shadows.
"Magic takes many forms in this world, Zac," the wizard finally replies. His voice is measured, each word chosen with care. "Some are learned, others innate. What you describe, healing by simple touch, is a rare and powerful thing."
He gently pulls the reins, setting his mount's pace to keep their conversation private, away from the curious ears of the dwarves and the hobbit.
"Has such a thing ever been seen," Zac ventures, "among beings other than the Maiar?"
The question is bold, nearly impertinent, asking Gandalf to reveal his true nature, to confirm his place among the Valar's servants sent to Middle-earth. But Zac needs to know, to understand what he has become since his transformation by the Song of the Ainur.
Gandalf's answer is careful, healing by touch is most famously present among the Maiar, and only rarely inherited by mortals through extraordinary means, such as the royal line of Númenor or those touched by the blessings of the Valar. Even then, the power is diminished, a faded echo of its original source. For others, even elves or mortals of great lineage, such gifts are exceptional, never commonplace. What Zac possesses may be the hallmark of ancient magic, or a sign of burdens yet to be revealed.