The crossroads where the Great East Road meets the river stretches empty beneath the afternoon sun, a junction of possibilities that seems to hold its breath in expectation. Zac sits beneath an ancient oak, Ash grazing peacefully nearby, his eyes scanning the horizon for any trace of the grey-robed figure he expects to meet. The Dúnedain brooch catches the light as he moves, a tangible reminder of bonds forged in battle and healing, of promises kept and trust earned. Water flows beside him, its gentle murmur counterpointing the occasional birdsong and whisper of leaves overhead, a peaceful interlude that belies the importance of what is to come.
His fingers play absently with the bronze oak-leaf medallion, his thumb tracing the time-worn contours. Since leaving the Rangers three days ago, every step has brought him closer to this moment, this intersection of paths and destinies. The memory of the healing he performed remains vivid, that strange sensation of channeling a force that flowed through rather than from him. The Healer's Hand, a gift he doesn't yet fully understand, but one that seems to manifest when need is greatest.
The river sings its eternal melody, heedless of passing hours or travelers' concerns. Zac closes his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds and scents of this land wash over him. The air carries the smell of fresh water, grass crushed beneath Ash's hooves, wildflowers dotting the banks, so different from Mordor's sulfurous vapors or the acrid dust of the depths. Each breath reminds him of his hard-won freedom, his rebirth.
His gaze turns westward, from where Gandalf should come. The wizard had been vague about the exact reasons for their separation, mentioning only "urgent business" requiring his attention. Zac hadn't pressed for details, understanding that an Istar's ways are often mysterious, even to those who share his road. But now, as hours pass without sign of the Grey Pilgrim, subtle worry creeps into his mind.
The sun begins its descent toward the horizon, tinting the landscape gold and amber. Shadows stretch across the grass like dark fingers through the clearing. Ash has moved closer, seeming to sense his master's growing concern, and gently nudges Zac's shoulder with his velvet muzzle. Zac strokes the horse's neck absently, his gaze never leaving the road that stretches empty toward the west.
"Where are you, Mithrandir?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible above the river's murmur.
A bird suddenly takes flight from the oak above, its wingbeats momentarily breaking the place's quiet. Zac's gaze is drawn to the old tree's branches, and that's when he notices it, a solitary leaf clinging to a low branch, unlike any other. Where its companions are deep green, this one gleams with an almost luminous silver radiance. It seems not to belong to this tree, or even this world, an anomaly that catches the eye like a star in an inky sky.
Intrigued, Zac rises and approaches the tree. The leaf trembles slightly, though no breeze stirs. It seems almost... aware. As he reaches toward it, he feels strange warmth radiating from the delicate form, a familiar energy resonating with the light now dwelling in his own eyes.
Then, without warning, a breath of wind, disturbing no other branch or leaf, detaches this silver jewel from its perch. Instead of falling, it rises, carried by an invisible current, and begins drifting eastward, away from the road he was meant to follow. The leaf glides, dancing through the air, moving away with a determination that cannot be chance.
Zac hesitates barely an instant. In his new existence, he has learned to recognize signs, subtle messages woven into the world's fabric. If Gandalf hasn't come to him, perhaps it falls to him to seek another destiny. With quiet resolve, he whistles for Ash, who trots over obediently. In a fluid motion, he mounts and urges his horse to follow this strange silver guide floating before them, always just far enough to encourage progress, never so far as to vanish from sight.
They leave the Great East Road, taking narrower paths winding through green hills. Twilight settles gradually, bathing the landscape in diffused light that makes the silver leaf even more visible, a beacon guiding a ship through night mists. Ash moves with sure steps, seeming to understand the importance of this strange pursuit.
Hours pass, the sun disappears completely, yet the leaf continues its course, its glow intensifying in the gathering darkness. It guides them through hidden vales, silent groves, streams murmuring softly in the night. The landscape changes subtly, hills becoming gentler, more rounded, dotted with well-tended woods and carefully cultivated fields.
Then, as night has grown deep and stars shine with crystalline brilliance above, Zac glimpses warm lights piercing the darkness in the distance. Round windows glowing, nestled in hillsides and valley slopes, as if the earth itself sheltered comfort-loving creatures. A village gradually appears, but a village unlike any he has seen of Man, Elf, or Dwarf. A hobbit village. The Shire.