The morning awakens harshly, every muscle protesting the echoes of the previous day's carnage. Zac opens his eyes beneath a blue sky. His body is not immune to fatigue after a night of battle and a forced, short march to this makeshift camp. Around him, the Rangers rise silently, moving from sleep to full awareness with an efficiency born of years spent in the wild.
He sits up, his back cracking in protest. His cloak, spread beneath him as a shield against the hardness of the ground, is dotted with morning dew. In the depths of Mordor there was no dew, no cycles of nature, only an eternity of immutable darkness. This simple manifestation of life draws a fleeting smile.
The Rangers' camp is a community in motion, a well-oiled machine where every man knows his task without orders. Some inspect their weapons, others prepare a frugal meal from dried provisions and berries gathered at dawn. A few tend the horses, sturdy beasts with dull coats, perfectly suited to their riders' nomadic life.
Barandir stands apart, quietly conversing with two other Rangers. Their expressions are grave, their gestures measured. Scouts, likely, bringing news from the surrounding lands. In this precarious world, even a victory like the previous night's offers only a temporary respite.
Zac rises fully, stretching his aching limbs. The superficial wound on his forearm, caused by an orc blade that found a gap in his defense, is now only a faint pink line. His body regenerates faster than before, another sign of his transformation.
A Ranger silently hands him a waterskin. Zac thanks him with a nod, savoring the cool liquid as it flows down his throat. He surveys the camp anew, not as a stranger, but as an allied spirit bound to these men by shared bloodshed.
Then he notices a gathering at the far end of the camp. A small group surrounds one of their brethren, lying upon a blanket spread on the ground. The man is pale, breathing heavily. His right arm bears a deep, purple, oozing wound, sharply contrasting with his pallid skin.
"The blade was poisoned," Zac hears one Ranger say to another. "Orc poison, black and vicious."
"We must take him to Rivendell," another replies, concern etched on his face. "Only Elven medicine might save him now."
"He won't survive the journey," objects an older man, his experienced hands cleaning the wound with a cloth soaked in a herbal decoction. "The poison spreads too fast."
Zac watches the scene, a strange sensation stirring in his chest. An impulse, a knowing not born of experience or study, but seemingly etched into the very fibers of his new being. He steps away from the group, drawn by the murmur of a nearby stream.
Kneeling at the edge of the clear water, he studies his reflection. His face seems both familiar and strange, refined by his transformation, his eyes shining with that silver and golden glow betraying his communion with the Music of the Ainur. In the crystalline water, a familiar interface materializes, visible only to him.
[Zac, Pilgrim of the Abyss]
[Bearer's March]
[Healer's Hand]
[Flame of Anor]
These titles, these concepts, are unlike the quantifiable skills he knew in his prison below. No percentages, no points to accumulate, no stats to improve, only natures, essences, potentials waiting to be realized. Since his release, he has sought to understand how to manifest these gifts, but they seem to elude his conscious will, appearing only in fleeting flashes during moments of perfect harmony with the surrounding world.
[Healer's Hand]
These words glow brighter than the others, as if animated by their own will, an echo of the thought sparked earlier, a reply to the impulse he felt when seeing the wounded Ranger.
A certainty rises within him, not as an idea, but a primal truth waiting to be acknowledged. He stands and turns his gaze toward the group gathered around the injured man.
"I may be able to help," he says as he approaches, his voice calm but firm.
The Rangers turn to him, expressions wavering between distrust and desperate hope. The eldest, who had been cleansing the wound, furrows his brows.
"With all due respect, stranger, this wound exceeds ordinary healers' skill. Orc poison is vicious, corrupting flesh and blood."
"I am not an ordinary healer," Zac answers simply.
He kneels beside the wounded man, studying the injury closely. It is graver than he first estimated. The flesh surrounding the cut is swollen, an unhealthy purple turning black in places. Dark veins spread from the wound, tracing the poison's path through the bloodstream. The man trembles, glassy-eyed, fixated on some unseen point, lips murmuring incoherent words.
"The blade pierced muscle to the bone," the old Ranger explains, his voice heavy with painful resignation. "The poison has begun to gangrene the flesh. Without Elven medicine…"
He does not finish, but the implication is clear: without extraordinary intervention, this man will die before sunset.
Zac looks around at the solemn faces. These men, whose lives have been spent protecting folk ignorant even of their existence, bearing almost forgotten heritage, deserve better than to lose one of their own to a poisoned orc blade.
"I will try," he says, more to himself than the others.