Part 3; To Succumb with Vengeance.

If you feel like

you're falling apart,

fall into my arms.

I promise I will catch

every little piece of you

and I promise

I will always love your brokenness.

Theon

Somewhere—trapped in history—existed innocent laughter. Surefooted grace as he raced across the grasses of Winterfell. Kissed fiery red beauties that might have a close visage to that of Sansa. Rutted in secret; first in the shade of tall cusps of trees. Then in the sanctity of his chambers. Sometimes, in those sacred instances—he slipped up. Sansa's name would slip—always her name.

And then—he would pay extra to swear them to secrecy. A knowing little smirk would befall rosy-lips, but never would it be spoken of.

Visions of the past—relinquished into dust.

Wide-eyes opened. Blurry shapes came into view—and her. Fingers clenched one newly-scarred hand. Delicate fingers brushed crescent scabbed, wounds. Suddenly—he recalled digging broken-nails into the thin skin. Pale veins on display, upon the fleshy palms.

"Theon?" Her voice cracked; trembled.

He blinked. Aware of her rounded-features. Red-swollen eyes, and heavy heart.

"San-sa…" Slow, drawn out tones emerged. Fear had fled—counting still had too—but with Sansa nearby (no sign of Jon in sight) he felt safe.

"You pleaded with me not to. But still I asked it of you, anyway. Can you forgive me, Theon?"

"Nothing to forgive—Promise…" Corrective speech felt lost on him. Reek was just below the surface of his psyche—attempting to penetrate.

"You were right, Theon. I wish I had allowed myself to listen. I wanted to have the same familiarity of my childhood. But I am not a young girl anymore. And Robb is gone. Everything I love is gone. Except for you. And I cannot force you to love me back." Her voice traveled through the air, like whispers. Her eyes saddened, with shattered hopes.

It was his fault. He shattered those hopes. Unable to defend himself—how then could he defend her?

"I do—love you." He fought through the barred walls of his inner-mind. Poked until he broke through. Until the truth; faltered from his lips. "I have always, loved you."

Her eyebrows, furrowed—drawing together in a tight line. Thumb brushed the sensitive curve of his jawline. And he shuddered with sensation.

"Do you?"

He didn't respond. Instead, extended his arm out, beckoning her to lay alongside of him. Wolfish heat, engulfed him like scorching fire when she drew near.

Reminders of everything he had ever been. Before. After. Ramsey was never far from view. Even now. When he is no longer alive, the shadow he cast would always be there. Hovering right between them. Distinctly taunting them for their weakness. Reek's betrayal. His love for Sansa, overrode Reek's love for Ramsey.

Plunged into silence; they laid like that, for a long time. Fire flames, crackled in the hearth. Owl's hooted in the distant northern woods. Scents of barley, rose from the kitchens below. Night was cold; worse than only dark. Theon was used to shadows. Darkness was his home.

"What do you remember?" Sansa broke the silence.

Theon's heart pattered, "Remember?" Confusion settled in. Crept right up his spine.

"About things. Before Ramsey—Before the war—"

Counting resumed. One. Two. Three.

Theon Greyjoy.

One. Two. Three.

Sansa Stark.

If she willed him to recall the past—this was how he delved in. It was never easy to sort through muddled histories. Scattered traces of the past. Never.

"Specifically?" He countered.

"About us?" She shed a tear. He felt it sear his skin.

His thumb grazed the point of her pulse, let her slender neck drag under his skin. Boiling hot; his belly screamed. "You used to sing. When you thought no one could hear. Out in the copse of trees, near the water's edge. I would spy, sometimes. Listen to your tune, as you sewed new dresses. Your voice is beautiful—but you never let anyone hear." As though from a distant plane—he answered.

"You spied?" Teasing hues found his. Brightness; light—surrounded her.

"I wanted to wed you, someday. To be your Lord, no longer a prisoner. Take you home to the Iron Islands. Put little heirs in your belly, and have entire nights by your side, where no one would bother us." Tears made lined-streaks down his skin. Images of a life that was now unattainable to them flashed. Shame huddled in on him. Crowding his skin.

Guardedly, her eyes fell from his. Tracing fingers stilled on the bareness of his chest. Her jaw quivered. "Theon…" Her voice crackled.

"Those things can never be. What happiness, or joy could I bring you? We will be alone. Cursed with a half-life. A false marriage, and laughter from everyone who hears of it. I can only bring shame upon you. Not the life you deserve."

"What about what you deserve?" Formidable tones spewed from her lips. Fingers cast away the falling tears upon her cheeks. Her lips quivered in recognition.

"I deserve nothing. I am nothing, My Lady." This time, he did not correct himself.

"You are not, nothing. But I will not force you to wed me. Nor force you to concede to me. You are a free man now. Free now, and forever. You owe me, nothing. I am just a foolish girl. Always that." She rose from his arm. Keen to depart (even from her own bed) if she was unwanted beneath the covers.

"Free…" The word was foreign to him. After, untold horrors—deviant atrocities, at Ramsey's hand, the concept was without grasp.

"Free." She cemented the word, in warm—but forced—composure.

With sullen eyes, he sought out the sounds of the wildlife, just outside. Listened to the wind blow, trees scrape against the stony castle walls. And he contemplated the cost of losing her.

Dreams of the past were long behind him—as were instances of a pleasant future.

No matter the direction he sought—he only foresaw pain at the end of the road.

Sansa

Some nights, under the rough, attacking fingers of Ramsey—she had pleaded for death. Never out-loud. Internally.

Many pieces were chipped from her flesh. Knicks that still covered the most hidden spaces on her bodice. And Theon had replaced all that fear—with hope. Mere, hope. The torturous remembrance of explorative fingers over her skin; the essence of all their memories piled together—haunted her.

Coiled near the sweltering heat of the hearth, Sansa drew up the rabbit fur blankets. Tucked the small piece of comfort, right under her chin. Swollen redness circled each eye. And her muscles were worn, from hours of unrest.

Her mind was preoccupied with the memories he spoke of fondly. Every illusion of the future that would never be. Perhaps, once she might have taken his hand in marriage. Wed him without a second thought on the matter. Loved him, beautifully—as a wife, does her husband. And he would love her in return. Back when she was a senseless, innocent Lady, hidden away in the North. And he was an inheriting Lord from the Iron Islands.

Innocence robbed them both of their freedom. And stubbornness, and shame—robbed them now, of happiness.

Tired eyes found poison in the flames, as Sansa listened to the sound of her own breathing. Hours, it felt as though she laid on the cushioned settee.

Until, muscled arms wound around her from underneath. Firm hands dug into sensitive spaces of curved skin. And the soft comfort of her bedding met her back. Theon's bloodshot orbs found hers in the firelight. Silent as the dead, he laid alongside her.

Shaping his hand around her curved jaw; Theon captured the swell of rose-red petals. Tears blinded her. Sansa blinked them back. Grasping hold of Theon for dear life. Fearful of losing the contact of warm skin. She wanted to ask, but feared the answer she would receive, if she did.

Did he merely feel sorry for her? Was he kissing her for comfort? Or love? What did this moment mean?

Hiking her leg up to nestle firm against his thigh—their kisses deepened. Burning heat built inside her lower abdomen. Every sign that he retained every urge inside, that she did, surfaced. Ten-fold.

"This is your bed, My Lady." She burned at the use of her title, rather than her name. What more could she say to make him understand—they were equals?

"Sansa." Demanding Tully-hues sank into his. Daring him to revert to the frivolous title, once more.

"My Lady." He dared. A mild glint of Iron-born stubbornness shone in his eye.

"Take off your breeches." Spoken in the form of an order, her eyebrow quirked.

If he could play the part—so then, could she.

With slight hesitation, he unlaced them. Slid them calmly down his hips. The pulse of his heart beat fast against his rib-cage. She could feel the pulsing beat just underneath, with her soft fingertips.

"Undress me, Theon." She willed him to react with the proper enthusiasm that he had previously. Listened to the heightened state of his breathing. Rasps of air leaving parted lips. She drank in the waves of lust that roiled off of him. Kissed him when their lips crashed together. Lifted her arms, when her nightdress was discarded upon the stone floor.

Tantalizing him with her eyes, slow fingers dragged down, until they circled his stub. Whines left his throat. Climbing astride her, he spread her thighs. Rutted down, displaced her fingers, by locking his own around her wrists. Hoisting them well over her head.

Pinned, she forced her mind not to panic—not to remember. Ramsey.

Instead, she focused on his kisses. The pleasurable build down between her splayed thighs. Came from the fire he invoked in her loins. Sansa nipped at his lips. Brushed her nose right against his. And whined.

This was love. In her eyes; this was all she might desire. Nights spent in the arms of the man she gave her heart to. Her bodice. She was his. He was hers. There was trust here. Disregard for set rules, together.

Need to flee—together. This is what she wanted. Why could he not see it?

Why did he not want it, too?

Forever?

Then—It bursts.

Pleasurable heat spreads through every limb in her frame. Eyes roll back in her head; skin darkens with red-heat. And she moans out his name. Fingers curl into the hands that hold her wrists in place.

Tangling their tongues, letting the past transcend into the present—she falls deeply for him. Deeper than before. Deeper even, than she might have ever hoped to fall.

Suddenly, she recognizes, that no matter how she might free him—she will always wish for what she asked, before. And always will.

To be his wife.