Zac doesn't know exactly what he's about to do. He has no protocol to follow, no skill to activate, just a deep certainty, an innate knowledge that seems written into the new fibers of his being.
He places his hands on either side of the wound, feeling the unhealthy heat of inflammation beneath his fingers and the irregular pulse of poisoned blood. He closes his eyes, not to concentrate but to open himself up, to become a vessel for something greater than himself.
At first, nothing happens. The Rangers around him hold their breath, the air thick with anticipation and skepticism. Then, a different warmth stirs beneath his palms, not feverish, but vital, a warmth that seems to flow both from and through him, as if he is merely the conduit rather than the source.
Eyes still closed, he senses a silver and golden light pouring from his hands, winding around the wound like streams of pure water. He does not see the light, but feels it, the way one senses music. It slips into the flesh, following the poisoned veins and neutralizing the corruption as it goes. The taint recedes like an ebbing tide, healthy tissue growing, cells multiplying at extraordinary speed to fill the void left by destruction.
The amazed murmurs of the Rangers reach him as through a veil. Someone gasps in pure surprise. Another mutters a Sindarin invocation to Elbereth.
When he finally opens his eyes, the wound is gone. In its place, a fine silver line, like an old scar, marks the Ranger's skin. The flesh around it is healthy, pink, with no trace of the infection that was devouring it moments ago. The man himself seems transformed, breathing steadily, his features relaxed, as if asleep in peace rather than fighting death.
The light radiating from Zac's hands fades slowly, ebbing away like a wave returning to the ocean. He feels both strangely drained and invigorated, as though he has channeled a force that emptied and filled him at once.
An absolute silence falls on the camp. All the Rangers have ceased their activities to witness this miracle. Their faces reflect awe, gratitude, and in some, a new kind of fear. What they have just seen is no mere medical feat, it is power out of legend, reminiscent of the Elder Days.
The old Ranger who had tended the wounded man lays a trembling hand on the man's forearm, feeling the skin as if doubting his eyes. "By all the Valar," he murmurs, "I've never seen the like."
Footsteps break the silence. Barandir approaches, his face impassive but his eyes shining with reined emotion. He stops before Zac, studying him with renewed intensity.
"My men reported what happened," he says gravely. "I told them to alert me if they saw anything… unusual."
Zac meets his gaze, unwavering. "I only did what I could."
Barandir slowly nods. "That is not the power of an ordinary man." It is not an accusation, merely fact. "When Mithrandir recommended you, I sensed there was more to you than met the eye. Now I am sure of it."
He unfastens a simple bronze brooch from his belt, shaped like an oak leaf. Its surface is worn with age and use, but the object radiates a dignity that transcends its simplicity.
"This is worn by those who have earned the trust of the Dúnedain," he explains, his voice rarely so solemn. "Few outsiders have ever received it."
He offers the brooch to Zac, who accepts it reverently. Turning it over, Zac sees a discreet rune engraved on the back, an ancient symbol whose precise meaning escapes him, but whose importance is unmistakable.
"I'm not sure I deserve such honor," Zac admits sincerely.
"That's not yours to judge," replies Barandir. "You saved one of my men from certain death. You fought at our side with courage and skill. And, more importantly, I sense in you a light that stands against the darkness we fight."
He places a firm hand on Zac's shoulder. "Wear this brooch. It will open doors and hearts that would otherwise remain closed. And know that as long as you bear it, you will be counted a friend of the Rangers."
An hour later, Zac is riding west, the oak-leaf brooch fixed to his cloak, its light weight nonetheless significant on his chest. Behind him, the Rangers' camp fades into the distance, but the memory of this moment, this mutual recognition among souls battling the shadow, remains vivid.
Ahead stretches the road to Bree, to his promised meeting with Gandalf. And beyond, an uncertain future in a world where his very presence is an anomaly, an unexpected note in the great symphony of fate.
The sun rises in the sky, bathing the lands of Eriador in golden light, a light echoing that which, just moments before, had sprung from his hands to heal, not destroy.