Night falls over the Galgals Heights like a heavy cloak, draping the ancient burial mounds in shadows that only the Rangers know how to navigate. Zac walks among them, a silent figure whose eyes sometimes catch the faint starlight and reflect it with that strange silver and golden luminescence that marks him as more than an ordinary man. These hills hold the memories of kings long dead, of battles forgotten by all but the oldest masters of lore, and now they bear witness to this small company moving like ghosts among the stones, their footsteps no louder than falling leaves.
Beside him, the Rangers move with the ease born from generations of roaming these harsh lands. Barandir leads with a tall, proud silhouette briefly outlined against the night sky before fading back into the darkness. These men, fallen descendants of Númenor, carry their heritage as an invisible burden. Zac watches them with quiet fascination, his eyes catching details others might miss in the gloom, the way they communicate with subtle gestures, the constant vigilance in their movements, the silent dignity they exude despite worn clothing and weathered faces.
To him, it is like seeing legendary figures come to life. In memories of another existence, the Dúnedain were mere words on a page, mysterious guardians mentioned in scarce passages. Now, he walks beside them, breathing the same cold air, feeling the same earth beneath his feet. He senses their fatigue, determination, melancholy, nuances no chronicle has ever fully captured.
"You are no ordinary man," Barandir suddenly says, voice barely more than the wind whispering through the stones. "Your eyes see what others cannot."
It is not a question, but Zac senses an answer is expected. He chooses his words carefully, aware of the danger every revelation carries.
"I have walked in places where few dare to venture," he replies simply. "Darkness teaches one to see differently."
Barandir studies him from beneath his hooded face. "Mithrandir trusts you. That is enough for us. But beware, those you will meet tonight have learned mistrust as others learn to breathe. Do not mistake their reserve for hostility."
"I understand," Zac nods. "Your people bear a burden few acknowledge. You protect those who do not even know you exist."
A flash of surprise crosses the Ranger's gaze. "You know our history?"
"Fragments," Zac answers cautiously. "The echoes of the past ring for those who know how to listen."
Barandir nods slowly. "Few remember Arnor, or the kings who walked these hills. The world moves on, and men's memories are short."
"But not the Dúnedain's," Zac murmurs.
A fleeting smile softens Barandir's stern features. "No, not ours. It is both our strength and our curse."
They walk on in silence for a time. The landscape subtly shifts, hills growing rockier, outcrops emerging from the earth like the bones of a slumbering giant. Zac senses a growing presence about them, eyes watching from unseen hiding places.
"We are almost there," Barandir announces. "The camp lies just ahead."
They descend into a rocky hollow, a naturally fortified space invisible from the surrounding plains. At its center burns a fire without smoke, a feat only the most skillful woodsmen can achieve. Around it stand about fifteen men, faces turned toward the newcomers. Their features are alike, piercing grey eyes, noble faces marked by dirt and fatigue, a dignity unerasable by poverty or exile.
With Barandir and his companions' arrival, the group now numbers about twenty, a rare gathering for this scattered people. Zac understands the moment's import; these solitary guardians seldom find occasion to assemble in such strength.
Barandir steps forward to the fire, and the circle parts to welcome him. The respect these men bear him is evident in every look, every slight nod. An older Ranger, his grey hair falling to his shoulders, hands him a cup of clear water.
"Has the hunt borne fruit?" the man asks, his voice hoarse from years of wind and rain.
"Partly," Barandir replies. "We encountered Mithrandir on the road." A murmur ripples through the assembly at the mention of the wizard. "He continues westward but left us an unexpected ally."
All eyes turn to Zac, who meets their scrutiny without faltering. He feels their wariness, but also their curiosity toward his luminous eyes and noble bearing, more Elf than Man.