Transmigration in Mordor

He broke the surface of the world.

The last fragment of rock pulverized by the worm gave way not to a fissure, but to a gaping hole in the mountainside. Zac was thrown outside, rolling down a slope of soft grass before coming to a stop, his face turned to the sky.

And the light struck him.

It wasn't a mere vision, but a physical force, a wave of gold and warmth that overwhelmed him, drenching him, cleansing him, washing from his being the filth, the blood, and the memory of darkness. He closed his eyes, submerged, and felt hot tears stream down his cheeks—tears not of sadness, but of a joy so pure and so violent it was painful.

He burst into laughter. A wild, unrestrained laugh, a hoarse sound that turned into a cry of pure triumph, a delirious hymn to his own survival. He was alive. He was free.

He staggered to his feet, drunk. Drunk on air. The air, so fresh, so fragrant with pine and damp earth, was an elixir that seemed to heal his lungs with every breath. He spread his arms as if to embrace the entire world, his face lifted to the sun, and spun in a clumsy, ecstatic dance.

Everything was beauty. Everything was a miracle.

The sky was a blue so deep, so infinite, that he felt he could drown in it. The clouds, a brilliant white, sailed like majestic ships on this celestial ocean. He dropped to his knees and plunged his hands into the grass. It was velvet, a living carpet of unimaginable softness. Each blade was a caress, each drop of dew a liquid diamond. He heard the birdsong, a melody so complex and joyful it seemed to be the very voice of happiness.

Every color, every sound, every sensation was a revelation, a violent and beautiful contrast to the monochrome of suffering he had known. The red of wildflowers against the red of magma. The soft green of leaves against the sickly green of monster ichor. The vibrant silence of life against the deafening roar of the worms. Everything he had endured—every death, every scar, every second of terror—had only served to make this moment more intense, more sacred. He had passed through the bowels of hell to witness the birth of paradise.

Then, as the morning sun climbed higher in the sky, chasing the last mists from the valley below, he saw it.

And the world stopped.

It was not a city. It was a petrified song, a prayer of stone and light made real. An impossible splendor, a jewel set in the verdant embrace of the hidden plain.

Gondolin.

In all its glory. In the absolute perfection of its golden age.

Towers of alabaster soared to the sky, so fine and white they seemed carved from solidified clouds. Their spires of silver and crystal caught the sunlight and diffracted it into a thousand dancing rainbows. Graceful bridges, like ribbons of white stone, spanned streams whose murmurs rose up to him. Monumental fountains shot sprays of shimmering water so high they seemed to reach for the firmament. And everywhere, hanging gardens and tree-lined squares burst with color, a profusion of flowers and foliage cascading down the walls.

Zac stood petrified, breathless, his heart pounding. He had read the descriptions, memorized the passages, but words were pale shadows compared to this dazzling reality. He sat down, unable to look away, and began to analyze the perfection laid out before him.

He recognized, or thought he recognized, the places of legend. The King's Square, at the heart of the city, where stood the tower of Turgon, a miracle of marble and gold. He saw the two trees, Glingal and Belthil, wondrous creations in the image of the Trees of Valinor, one shedding a golden light, the other a silver light. He saw the seven gates, the seven walls—the perfect defense against the outside world.

He understood then the true meaning of Gondolin. It wasn't just a fortress. It was a work of art, the pinnacle of Noldor civilization. It was the embodiment of their greatest dream and their most terrible pride: the attempt to recreate a fragment of Valinor's perfection in Middle-earth, a sanctuary of light and knowledge sheltered from the shadows. It was a magnificent and desperate protest against the darkness, an affirmation that beauty could exist, even at the edge of the abyss.

His mind was a whirlwind. The horror of the depths, the majesty of the sleeping Balrogs, the fury of the worms—all faded before this vision. He had witnessed the absolute ugliness of the world, and now, he contemplated its absolute beauty.

The sun climbed higher, flooding the valley with golden light. And before him, Gondolin, the Hidden City, the Flower of Stone, shone not as a legend in a book, but as a living promise, a waking dream in the heart of the world.