emblems of truth

The weight of a dull, persistent ache anchored Sauron's awareness. He groaned, the sound smothered by the dense undergrowth of the forest. As the cold dampness seeped through his clothing, he gradually regained consciousness, the thick aroma of moist earth and decay surrounding him. The events that led him here played out in fragments, flickering through his mind like old film reels.


Grasping at the recollections, his fingers brushed against cold metal. The hidden blade. Its unfamiliar weight brought fleeting images of that intense moment earlier. The more he tried to grasp the memories, the more elusive they became.

Slowly, painstakingly, he lifted his head, the forest's canopy blurring into shadows. The shapes of trees, once familiar markers, now seemed like towering, ominous figures, waiting in the stillness. Pushing himself upright, a pang of unease struck him; his horse was nowhere to be seen.


Sauron's isolation weighed heavy on him. But amidst the encompassing darkness, the faint, ethereal glow of Winterfell's torchlights beckoned like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. A beacon of safety.


As he began his measured approach towards that faint glow, the solitude of the forest was shattered. A sharp crack echoed, halting him in his tracks. The sound of his own breathing was deafening as he strained his ears, trying to locate its source. Another sound, lower, more threatening—a growl—sent shivers down his spine.


The chase began.


Driven by sheer terror, Sauron fled through the dense foliage. But as the distance between him and his pursuer diminished, a curious sensation began to bloom within him. A heightened state of perception, as if the forest whispered its secrets to him. The dire wolf's growls, its panting breath, and the rhythmic thudding of its paws seemed amplified, almost intimate.


The climax was swift. Time slowed, and the world narrowed to the wolf and Sauron. With a swift, fluid motion born of instinct, he turned and thrust. The blade found its target. The menacing creature that had seemed unstoppable just moments ago now lay motionless before him, its fierce eye dimmed.
As his breathing began to regulate, a torrent of questions threatened to drown Sauron. This act, this reflex, where had it come from? The blade in his hand, now darkened with the dire wolf's lifeblood, seemed to hum with a resonance he couldn't understand.
Filled with trepidation and confusion, he resumed his journey to Winterfell. Every step weighed down by the burden of uncertainty and the desperate need for clarity. The mysterious blade, and its connection to him, demanded answers. And he hoped, with every fiber of his being, that his parents or someone might know something.


Emerging from the suffocating clutches of the forest, Sauron stepped into the expansive openness of a moonlit field. The comforting sight of Winterfell's stone walls lay ahead, their looming silhouette carved against the inky sky.
As he trudged through the grass, Sauron couldn't help but inspect the hidden blade. Curiously, he applied pressure to it, and with a muted click, the blade retreated into its sheath. The mechanism fascinated him, but its implications troubled him. He'd lost the horse—worse, they might accuse him of stealing and selling the horse.


Relying on his innate stealth, honed from countless escapades sneaking around Winterfell, Sauron approached the castle walls. Scaling them was a challenge he'd tackled numerous times before, but tonight, there was an added weight of fear, making every grip feel uncertain, every step precarious.


Slipping past guards, shadows, and unsuspecting residents, he made his way to his parents' quarters. The door was ajar, candlelight spilling out, painting amber patterns on the corridor's stone floor. Pushing it open, he found himself locked in a heavy gaze with both his mother and father.


The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension. Anger, worry, and a myriad of emotions played across his parents' faces.


"You're back late," his mother remarked, her voice a blend of relief and sternness. "Where were you?"


Searching for a convincing lie, Sauron responded, "I was just... out, exploring some parts of Winterfell I hadn't seen. Lost track of time.
Hullen. Could easily tell that Sauron was not being truthful showing no sign of being convinced. "You leave in the middle of the day, and don't return to till the moon is high. Don't take us for fools boy. Be a man and tell us the truth.
Before he could answer, his father's eyes narrowed onto the hidden blade. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, recognizing the emblem etched onto it.
Hesitantly, Sauron explained his discovery. Without a word, his father fetched a worn piece of cloth, unfolding it to reveal an identical emblem.


"This is the cloth we found you wrapped in," he murmured, his voice heavy with memories.


His father, Hullen, sighed deeply, his face reflecting years of concealed pain. "Fourteen years ago, during one particularly cold winter day, I was accompanying lord stark on a hunting party near the outskirts of Winterfell. We heard a baby's cry. Following the sound, we found you, wrapped in this cloth, covered in snow.


His mother chimed in, her voice soft, "We took you in, raised you as our own. We never knew who left you or why."
The room felt as if the air had been sucked out of it. The implications crashed down on Sauron. Abandoned? Left to perish? The weight of the revelation rooted him to the spot.


"We thought it best you didn't know," his mother whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.


Sauron sank into a nearby chair, lost in a whirlwind of emotions. With the day's events and these revelations, he needed time—time to reflect and find his place amidst the chaos of his life. But unfortunately the wheels of fate and destiny had already begun to spin