shadows of the past

Years had passed since that fateful night in the woods, and Winterfell had changed, as had Sauron. He was no longer the curious child with wide eyes, but a young man of 14 with dreams and desires that reached beyond the looming walls of the Stark stronghold. The sun had barely risen over the castle, yet its gentle warmth seeped through the ancient weirwood trees. Their crimson leaves, dancing in the wind, scattered sunbeams across the cobblestone path that led to the stables. Sauron took a moment, the play of light and shade mirroring his inner turbulence.


Inside the stable, horses ruffled and snorted impatiently, awaiting the day's duties. Sauron's adoptive mother, Elara, approached him, her gentle face framed by wisps of silver hair escaping from her bun. She placed a hand on his cheek, sensing his disquiet.


"You seem distant today," she remarked softly, her eyes searching his.
Sauron smiled weakly, "Just lost in thought, mother."


Elara frowned, "You know, your father only wants what's best for you. This world, it can be cruel to those like us."
Before Sauron could reply, a playful shout drew his attention. Jon Snow, his dark curls tousled, brandished a wooden sword with a mischievous grin. "Ready for another lesson in humility, Sauron?"


Sauron twirled his own sword, smirking, "You mean the lesson where you remind me of every loss, yet conveniently forget how I saved your sorry hide from the White Knife river?"


Jon's laugh echoed through the courtyard, "Ah, one moment of heroics! You know, if you'd been as good with a sword as you were at swimming, I'd be the one losing now."


Their duel began, the rhythmic clack of wood on wood filling the air. Every parry and lunge was punctuated by banter, their voices a blend of challenge and camaraderie.


Their playful clash was interrupted by the steely voice of a guard. "Snow, Lord Stark requires you. Some matter with a deserter." The guard's eyes slid contemptuously over Sauron. "And you, get the horses ready, bastard."


The word 'bastard' echoed in Sauron's ears, turning the warm morning cold. He watched as Jon, ever dutiful, nodded and followed the guard. For a moment, Sauron felt alone amidst the bustling courtyard, the weight of his uncertain lineage pressing down on him.


He took a deep breath, feeling a familiar anger bubble up. Why was he always defined by a word, a circumstance of his birth that he had no control over? He loved Winterfell, but every whisper, every sidelong glance, made him question his place here.


Sauron turned to his task, preparing the horses with methodical precision. Each brush stroke, each tightened strap, allowed him a momentary escape from his turbulent thoughts.


A firm yet caring voice interrupted his focus. "Sauron," the voice began. He looked up to find Hullen, his adoptive father, regarding him with a mixture of concern and pride.


"Father," Sauron acknowledged, a hint of fatigue evident in his voice.
Hullen stepped closer, casting a quick, disapproving glance in the direction of the guard who had uttered the derogatory term. "Pay no mind to thoughtless words," he counseled. "Your worth isn't determined by the ignorance of others."


Sauron sighed, "It's not just today, father. It's the whispers, the side glances, the constant reminder that I don't truly belong."


Hullen placed a reassuring hand on Sauron's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You belong with us. You are my son in all the ways that matter. Remember that, always."


Feeling a rush of gratitude, Sauron nodded, the weight on his chest lifting slightly. "Thank you, father."


As he worked, Elara approached again, her gaze full of concern. "Sauron," she began, her voice soft yet firm, "do not let the words of others define you. You are so much more than a label. You have a heart full of courage and kindness. Never forget that."


Sauron looked into her eyes, the depth of her love and understanding evident. He hugged her tightly, drawing strength from her warmth. "Thank you, mother," he whispered.


The day wore on, and as the sun reached its zenith, Sauron's restlessness grew. Seeking solitude and clarity, he decided to take a ride in the nearby forest. The dense canopy and the rhythmic hoofbeats provided a serene backdrop to his tumultuous thoughts.
He recalled the countless times he had ventured here, climbing trees, discovering hidden nooks, and once, even rescuing a young rabbit from a trap. But today, the forest held a different allure. An inexplicable pull led him deeper into the woods.


Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the air. An eagle, majestic and powerful, descended swiftly, capturing a rabbit and settling on a high branch, its eyes locking onto Sauron's. The intensity of the gaze was almost human, filled with wisdom and a hint of recognition.


Drawn by this mysterious connection, Sauron approached the spot where the eagle had struck. His fingers brushed against something metallic, hidden beneath a layer of moss and fallen leaves. As he pulled it out, the ornate blade gleamed in the dappled sunlight, its hilt adorned with the emblem of the Assassins.


The world around him seemed to blur, memories not his own flooding his mind. Visions of cloaked figures, whispered secrets, and shadowed alleys filled his consciousness. The symbol on his hand glowed faintly, its luminescence pulsating with the rhythm of his racing heart.


Unable to bear the weight of these ancestral memories, Sauron's knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground. The last thing he heard before darkness consumed him was the haunting cry of the eagle, echoing through the depths of the forest.