His heart quickens despite himself. This place, he knows it without ever having visited. In his former life, he read descriptions, imagined its contours, dreamed of its peaceful inhabitants. And now here it is, real and tangible before him, even more charming than in the pages of a book or frames of a film. The carefully tended gardens, low fences, winding paths bordered with flowers, the smials carved into hillsides with their perfectly round doors and windows, everything is exactly as he imagined, yet infinitely more alive, more authentic.
The silver leaf quickens, as if eager to reach its destination, and Zac urges Ash to follow through the maze of paths leading into Hobbiton's heart. A few lingering hobbits watch with amazement as this tall man on a grey horse passes, his eyes gleaming strangely in the darkness. Zac nods respectfully to them, aware of how incongruous his presence is in this haven of peace.
Finally, the leaf slows, floating lower, until it stops before a hill grander than the others. There, nestled in the earth, stands a remarkable door, round, green as a spring meadow, with a perfectly polished brass knob at its center. The leaf settles upon it delicately, as if having finally found its place in the order of things, then slowly dissolves into motes of light that vanish into the night.
Zac dismounts, tethering Ash to a nearby fence with hands that tremble slightly with excitement. He approaches the door, and then notices it, freshly carved into the green wood, a rune glowing with faint blue light. A sign he recognizes instantly, a mark left by a certain wizard to indicate adventure in preparation.
From within escape sounds confirming his suspicions: deep, jovial voices, hearty laughter, the clink of cutlery and clash of tankards. His heart pounds in his chest. He stands at the threshold of a moment he never thought possible, a junction between his knowledge of a story and his participation in it.
A shiver runs down his spine, mixing apprehension with pure excitement. This instant, this round green door, marks the true beginning of his integration into this world's fabric. Until now he has been an observer, a solitary traveler on the periphery of great events. But what awaits behind this door could place him at the very heart of one of Middle-earth's most emblematic adventures.
Taking a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks resolutely.
The conversation inside diminishes momentarily, then hurried footsteps are heard. The door opens abruptly, revealing a hobbit with an exasperated air, red cheeks and short breath. His curly hair is slightly disheveled, and his waistcoat, a fine embroidered velvet garment, seems to have been sorely tested by the evening's events.
The hobbit opens the door with a resigned sigh, clearly expecting another boisterous guest. His gaze falls on Zac, and surprise briefly replaces his weariness. "Oh." He blinks, noting this newcomer is no dwarf. "Forgive me. The house is... full. May I help you?"
The hobbit's politeness, even amid what appears to be total chaos in his home, touches Zac. This innate courtesy, this civility persisting despite adversity, is exactly what characterizes Bilbo Baggins in the tales he knows. Zac bows slightly, responding with a formality that seems to further unsettle the hobbit, accustomed for the past hour to the blunt manners of the dwarves who have invaded his home.
"My name is Zac," he says in a gentle but assured voice. "I believe Gandalf expects me here."
Bilbo blinks, seeming momentarily overwhelmed by this new complication in his already chaotic evening. Then, with a resigned sigh, he steps aside to clear the passage.
"Come in, come in then!" he says, his natural hospitality overriding his confusion.
Zac stoops to cross the threshold, entering Bag End's cozy warmth. The interior is exactly as he imagined, polished wood paneling, comfortable furniture, lamps casting golden light, and everywhere signs of a well-ordered life suddenly disrupted by a noisy, hungry invasion. Dwarves are everywhere, carrying food, rearranging furniture, emptying the unfortunate hobbit's pantry. An organized pandemonium reigns in what was probably, hours ago, a peaceful and meticulously arranged home.
Amid this disorder, a familiar figure stands out, Gandalf, slightly stooped beneath beams too low for his tall frame, a glass of red wine in hand and a mischievous smile on his lips. Spotting Zac, his expression brightens with obvious satisfaction.
"Zac! There you are at last," exclaims the wizard, approaching him with an ease suggesting he never doubted his arrival. "I see you received my message."
Zac understands then, the silver leaf was no coincidence, but a deliberate invitation, a guide sent by the wizard himself. Gandalf gestures toward the noisy company filling the small dwelling.
"Allow me to present part of our company: Dwalin, Balin, Kili, Fili, Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur!"
The dwarves momentarily interrupt their activities to assess the newcomer. Their gazes are direct, their greetings taking the form of abrupt nods and various grunts. Zac salutes them in turn, discovering for the first time these characters who, until now, existed for him only in book pages or on screen.
Gandalf leans toward him, lowering his voice to avoid being heard by the others. "Did the Rangers clear the Orc camp?"
"They did," Zac confirms, understanding the wizard had likely orchestrated their meeting with the Dúnedain. "The North is somewhat safer, for now."
A satisfied smile crosses the wizard's face, then his attention is diverted by new commotion among the dwarves. Zac observes the scene with quiet fascination, absorbing every detail, every nuance of this moment he knows to be the prelude to an extraordinary adventure.