The Black Speech

The air was heavy, foul, thick with the acrid smell of burnt stone and a dust so ancient it seemed to be the remains of a forgotten world. Zac stood before the monumental staircase, an artificial cliff that vanished into the unfathomable darkness of the vault. His eyes, now accustomed to the nuances of the dark, scanned the thousands of runes carved into the black rock. These were not mere inscriptions. They were scars, open wounds in the stone, sinuous and sharp symbols that seemed to dance in the faint ambient light, like a colony of luminous worms writhing to the rhythm of an inaudible melody. He could feel the magic, a cold and oppressive power emanating from the steps, and he thought.

He lost himself in the contemplation of the paradox that tormented him. The Black Speech. Every hook, every broken line, every cruel angle reminded him of the description of that evil tongue, forged not to communicate, but to dominate. A grammar of hatred, designed by Sauron himself, the Lord of Darkness, to bind the creatures of shadow to his will. This was a certainty drawn from the fragments of his old life, from the books he had devoured. But this certainty shattered against another: Gondolin. The vision of the hidden city, resplendent in its ivory perfection, was still seared onto his retina. A city of the First Age, a bastion of light that could only exist if Sauron were still just a lieutenant of shadow, an echo of Morgoth's power, far from being the master of his own empire.

How, then, to explain this staircase? These runes that seemed worn by millennia, carved into the stone long before Sauron had the idea of forging the Ring? His mind grew muddled, caught in the coils of an impossible timeline. The memory of the Eye in the volcano returned with an almost painful intensity, an image that superimposed itself on his doubts. That incandescent chasm where a pupil of black void had stared at him, it was not the Eye of Sauron as legends would later describe it. It was older, more primordial. And yet, it bore its mark, the same crushing presence, the same inquisitive will. 'Is the entity that judged me upon my arrival Sauron? Or did Sauron, in his quest for power, ally himself with this thing, drinking from the wellspring of its evil knowledge?' He no longer knew what to think. The ground beneath his feet felt less stable, the walls of his prison vaster and more complex. Only one thing was certain: he was at the heart of a secret that went beyond the simple geography of a personal hell. He was under the Mountain of Doom, at the core of a myth that was rewriting itself before his eyes.

Driven by the insistent vibration of Morngul in his hand, he resumed his study. For hours, he observed, no longer with his eyes, but with his corrupted soul. He managed to perceive a pattern, not in the symbols themselves, but in the energy they radiated. This apparent chaos was a dissonant harmony, a silent, malevolent melody whose notes were woven into the very fabric of reality. He felt utterly incapable of understanding its syntax, let alone imagining creating such objects of power. But by concentrating, by letting the whispers of his sword guide him, he could spot flaws. Interlacings of energy where the melody of the runes grew fainter, almost silent, like a musician missing a note in a symphony. These were weak points, crude sutures hidden under layers of complexity to conceal the inscriptions' vulnerabilities.

An unhealthy curiosity, mingled with a thirst for power, seized him. He wanted to test his theory. He brandished his cursed sword, Morngul, to its full length. The blade of shadow and mithril seemed to exult, its violet glow intensifying. He aimed for a specific area, a knot of runes where the energy seemed to wane. He drew back his arm, ready to bring his titanic strength down upon the stone, to break the chain of this ancient magic. But at the last moment, his arm froze. He stopped, the sword suspended in the air, his breath short.

In that suspended moment, a vision of horror gripped him. He thought back to the curse of the staircase. What if it wasn't just a trap for him, but a barrier? A gigantic lock, designed to contain the horrors he had faced. He imagined the consequences of his act. The plains of Rohan overrun by swarming colonies of spiders. The forests of Lothlórien set ablaze by enraged Balrogs. The foundations of Minas Tirith gnawed away by titanic worms. And the armies of specters from the fourth cavern, sweeping over a defenseless world. The thought chilled his blood, a terror deeper than that of his own death.

Morngul seemed to grow heavier in his hand, a mass of cold disappointment. He couldn't be certain of the staircase's powers, and in doubt, he chose not to strike. He thought back to his sins, to the precarious balance he was trying to maintain. He had fled his responsibility through inaction. He had embraced brutality out of despair. And now, he stood at a crossroads. Breaking the runes would be an act of pure violence, a potential liberation born of destruction. Doing nothing would be, perhaps, an act of protection. The line was thin, but he thought, with infinite weariness, that he had acted for the best by choosing not to break the cage.

He then began the ascent of the cliff face, a path of pure physical agony. Every handhold was a victory, every meter gained a battle against gravity and exhaustion. He took breaks, sleeping for a few hours on the bare rock, letting his healing skill work its magic on his bloodied hands.

Soon, he reached the summit. From there, he contemplated the carnage from another angle, a panorama of silence and death, a cemetery of fallen gods. He had been discreet, invisible to the eyes of the few Balrogs that might still be conscious in the depths. He wasn't about to take any chances. Without a sound, he turned away from the cursed staircase and moved forward, toward the next cavern, ready to face the horrors that awaited, aware that each step brought him closer to an even darker truth.