"I was helping you. You wanted to escape, there is no escape. . . not ever."
Try as she might, Sansa was unable to rid her mind of what Theon had said. In the yawning, infinite hours that had passed since her imprisonment began, and that loomed yet before her, all she could do was think. In the beginning, she screamed - when she was alone, when Theon brought her food, when the man who called himself her "husband" brutalized her. He got off on it, his grey eyes glinting with perverse pleasure as he took her. . . so she stopped. The first time, he tore her gown, taking her from behind.
It was terrible - yes, the worst torture of her life so far - until it wasn't. Night after night, the atrocities Ramsay subjected her to became more and more egregious. The bastard had a fascination with biting, sinking his teeth into her breasts as he forced her, biting so fiercely Sansa wondered how they were not severed. Each morning she woke mottled with bruises, her body a canvas of his cruelty, an outward manifestation of the agony she felt inside.
Occasionally, Theon - what little of Theon was left, entombed in the shell of "Reek" - was present, commanded to watch as Ramsay debased her. Though Sansa no longer cried, Theon always did, his tears streaking through the grime that caked his cheeks. Once or twice she was touched by his tears, but soon enough she was numb to it, numb to everything except the wish that she were dead. Eventually she was desolate, deprived even of the company of her hatred, which she had curled up with and nursed like a babe. It had been all that sustained her, and then it was gone, and there was nothing. Until . . .
"They weren't Bran and Rickon! I couldn't find them."
Her hope was renewed, and with it, her hatred. Gods damn Ramsay Bolton for all that he was, and damn Theon for all he had done, had allowed himself to become! Sansa's hands balled into fists, her nails digging deep enough into her palms to draw blood. Gods damn them, damn them!
Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of short knocks at the door. "Pardon me, milady. I am coming in." Theon. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as the key rattled in the lock. The door creaked as it opened. Theon stood and stared at her dumbly, his eyes lingering on her bruises, a palette of purple, green and bluish black. Sansa cleared her throat, and he shifted his gaze to the floor. "Well? Come in, Theon."
"Yes, milady." He no longer bothered to correct her. He entered the room, stopping at the end of the bed. He stood awkwardly until Sansa bade him to sit. He obeyed as Sansa shifted so that she could sit beside him. Silence reigned between them. Theon unexpectedly took her hand, frowning at the beads of blood pooling in the creases of her palm. He gently folded her fingers closed and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Oh, Theon. . ." her voice trailed off. She wiped her bloodied hands on her gown, and took hold of Theon's.
Theon immediately slipped his hands out of her grasp. "I shouldn't be here," he muttered to himself. "I wish I hadn't come." Sansa turned her head away from him so he would not see the tears brimming in her eyes. She had not expected the wave of hurt that washed over her. She took a few moments to compose herself before turning back to him. "Why?" Theon coughed and cleared his throat. He stared down at his hands as he replied, "The Master sent me here. I didn't want to come, but I had to obey. I know you hate me."
"That is not true! Whatever torture you've endured, whatever poisonous lies you have been told, you know that is not true." Seeing him flinch, Sansa softened her tone as she continued. "Whatever I said before was spoken in anger and misunderstanding. Theon, please, look at me." Theon complied, his dull, listless eyes a retrospective mirror of her own. Sansa held his gaze as she combed her fingers through his hair, as she had often done when she was very young; when, next to her brother, Theon comprised her entire world. "Why did Ramsay send you?"
Theon blinked and looked at the wall as he answered. "The Master is afraid that milady has become . . . disconsolate. He supposed I ought to keep watch over you in case -" "In case I decide to kill myself?" Sansa laughed bitterly and tugged Theon's hair, savoring his slight wince of pain. "You may tell your 'Master' that I am overall hale and hearty. You might also tell him that if he had any concern for my well-being, he might consider telling me himself."
Theon stood abruptly and fidgeted, shifting all his weight from one foot to the other. Sansa watched anxiously, trying and failing miserably to assume an air of cool detachment. "You are lying to me," she said at last. "Now tell me why you are really here." "Well, m-milady, I -" "Theon, please. You have known me since I was an infant toddling in the nursery. Can you not call me by my name?"
"Y-yes of course, m-mil-Lady. . .Sansa." Theon sat back down. He took Sansa's hand and cradled it in the crook of his arm. "In truth, Lady Sansa," he began, his voice tremulous as Sansa's grip on his elbow tightened; "In truth, I came of my own accord. I have been worried about you. The Master doesn't know. . . he doesn't know. . ." An expression of horror came over him, and he visibly trembled as he wondered aloud, "What will he do to me now?"
"Nothing." Sansa held his face in her hands, torn between the urge to slap him or to kiss and comfort him, as if he were a child. She settled on the latter, gently kissing his forehead, where the skin was largely unmarred by dirt or soot. "Nothing is going to happen to you, because I won't let it - I won't let him hurt you, Theon, I swear it. Don't you believe me?" "I believe you would if you could. . ." Sansa opened her arms, and Theon leaned into her embrace and rested his chin on her shoulder. He inhaled, relishing the scent of her skin, of cloves and lavender and her own unique fragrance.
For a few moments, he simply breathed and allowed himself to be held. Soon enough, he would have to be on his way, back to the cold, dark damp of the kennel. He was so thoroughly broken (at least Ramsay Bolton believed that to be the case) that he'd been entrusted with a ring of keys that would permit him entrance anywhere in the castle keep, within reason. Sitting on the bed and in the embrace of his former foster sister certainly fell out of the parameters of "reason." Theon scoffed and closed his eyes. He had nearly fallen asleep when he felt Sansa's shoulder quiver beneath him.
"Sansa," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "Are you hurt?" In reply, Sansa gripped his shoulders and leaned against his chest, her body wracked with silent sobs. She thought she had shed all her tears, that her supply had run dry. She wept as the jagged pieces of her broken heart slowly mended. She wept for all that she had lost, all that she had thought she'd lost, and all that remained to be found; until, exhausted, she extricated herself from Theon's hold.
"Theon," she murmured, the name an invocation on her lips. "Theon. . . thank you. You must go now, before you are found missing." Theon stood unsteadily, clasping Sansa's hand. "Yes, milady," he rasped, lapsing back into servile speech. "With your permission, milady, I will take my leave." He released her hand, but not before squeezing it reassuringly. He stopped at the door and turned back to see that Sansa was watching him, a new-found spark of light in her green eyes that shone even in the dimness. "Good night, milady, and thank you. I will do my best to see that no more harm comes to you."
As Theon shut the door and locked it behind him, Sansa lay back down. She pulled the coverlet over her, shivering from more than the cold.
"Good night, Theon. I promise you, the Bastard of Bolton will never harm you again . . . not while I'm around."
Author's Note: Alright, that's it, then. I'm so new to the GoT fandom that I've yet to see even one full episode in its entirety, just a hodgepodge of AMV's and scenes on YouTube. What I do know from these videos and clips is that (1) this show is the greatest thing since sliced bread and (2) Theon and Sansa are the most misunderstood, most thoroughly abused, and most beloved (by me, anyway) characters I've ever known in any artistic medium. Oh yeah, and (3) Ramsay Bolton is a horrific bastard who may in fact be Satan Himself.
Being that this is my first fic in the fandom, and I've been a fan for literally two weeks, some things will be off. I don't know if I have the mannerisms or speech patterns of the characters down, but I did try my best to capture their angst and sorrow. If you please, let me know what you liked, disliked, what can be improved upon, and any other suggestions you wish.
Thanks. ;-)