Part 5; To Break Everything.

Everything that's broken

is in your hands.

Theon

Wind whistled through the courtyard. Whipped bits of snow off the ground, where they hovered for an instance—then faltered—swaying back down upon the Earth. Always, it was easiest to concentrate on the littlest things.

Far more than to concentrate upon the bigger picture.

Sansa.

The northern beauty was never far from his mind. Always a thought away. Three eves had come, then gone, since last he shamed her.

Images of those nights, scoured the broken ridges of his fractured mind. Slowly, the crescents, pierced into his palms were healing. Thin, white scars would soon take the place of reddened lines.

Dark rimmed circles, scored the underside of Theon's eyes. Jon had avoided him—with poignant stares whenever he passed. Oftentimes, Theon would cower when he saw Jon approaching. Sulk into a nearby alcove until he was gone. It was the safest option. Not to lose his life.

And Sansa—steering clear of her, altogether.

No longed requested to guard her at night, he instead huddled in the pens that once held Ramsey's hounds. They were long since abandoned. And a sort of home to him. Familiarity.

Jon would never seek him out there—he felt unsafe in the chambers he was granted upon his arrival. Smelling of hay, and filth was second nature to him as Reek. What difference could it possibly make, now?

He saw so little of Sansa in the past days. Glimpses of her lingering above for a small window of time. Distinctive sadness glazed her eyes—always.

Precise, careful steps were made up above, at the top of the landing, near stone pillars. He recognized scarlet-red hair. Saddened optics—and Theon made quick work of remaining hidden from her view.

One quick side-step, had him covered by shadows. Darkness. The likes of which he lived in for years.

After various nights spent underneath warm animal pelts, upon her bed, squirming underneath exploratory fingertips—he burned for her. Even now—a mere glimpse of what he turned away; set him alight.

Blood rushed to fill his need. Theon's head twitched. Eyes. Hands. Mouth. In quick succession, from the sensation of the burn. How he missed her.

Even though, each night was wrong. That they could never be, as one. Splintered with shame for Sansa—his love would never flutter out. Not for her.

Instead, the absence of her touch—of their sin—made the burn deeper. Fiery.

Skulking back to the hound pens—he lowered to his knees in the hay. Beat. Punched, thin fabric of his single-threadbare blanket, into a pillow-ish mound. He rested his head on the faded thing. Closed his eyes. Then counted.

One. Two. Three.

She was not his.

One. Two. Three.

He brought shame upon her. Upon them both.

Further counting—further dissuasion did nothing to alleviate the burn. Like fire, it spread. From what remained of his toes—to his head. Skin grew achy—hot, underneath the thick fabric of his clothes.

Unbuckling his belt latch with clumsy fingers—Theon shed his sword. Laid it alongside of him in the hay. His armor was in the corner. Discarded. He was no knight. No protector to Sansa. He could not even defend himself.

With closed eyes—he remembered each past encounter with Sansa these last days. Lonely, as could be. The burn increased in totality. Ignoring it, did no good.

Finally, it became too much.

He pushed his hand beneath his breeches. Recalling the soft touch of Sansa's hand—he used his own. Palmed the swollen stub. Felt blood rush there. Bucked his hips in pitiful, movements. Panted in heated moans. Dug his face into the blanket to muffle his sounds.

Though, there was little purpose to stifling his cries. No one would hear them—nor care to. The stables were all but abandoned. Hounds, all slain.

In slow, agonized movements, he jerked his hips. Rutted roughly against his palm.

The burn built. Until it boiled in his loins. He ignored every ache that came with lying in rough, hay. Each joint that spasmed from countless torture. And for this instance—he felt human.

"S-Sansa!" Choking the cry into the scratchy blanket—he descended into sobs. Pulses of release spread to every nerve-ending. Each corner of his form. And his useless hand, stilled.

Breath catching, slowly. Eyes remained clamped shut.

"Theon." A cracked voice, barely above a whisper slammed reality into him. Hard.

And his heart nearly stilled, entirely.

Sansa

Each night granted her no sleep. Not a wink. She felt the horrors inflicted on her, by Ramsey in every muscled ache underneath her skin. Heard his footfalls every which direction. Could even hear his sickening voice inside her head.

Jon avoided her. Theon, too.

Sansa felt more alone than she ever had in King's Landing. The guard outside her door at night was young. Perhaps handsome—but not Theon. Not the man she sought to protect her.

Depression descended in on her. It was not only loneliness she found in Winterfell. But heartache.

Theon would not have her, and Jon could not see reason. She felt like a black shadow had descended on her life. Darkness. Cruelty. Loneliness.

All of which, followed her about.

Traipsing in the waning light; fresh air was all she could hope to have. Theon hid from her. Where? She knew not.

Then—A flicker caught Tully-blues.

A shadow. Brief. When it had gone—she barely knew if it was ever there at all. Descending the steps in slow movements, Sansa wandered out into the courtyard. Refused to meet eyes with anyone. Least of all Jon as she passed. Once she reached the space, she saw the flicker—nothing was there.

Of course. Theon did not want to be found.

Able to move in darkness—hopelessness shrouded her heart. About to turn—leave—was when she heard it.

Low, guttural sounds, that came from the shadowed, darkness of the stables. Pens where the hounds were kept, still stood. Inside.

She braved the entrance. Crossed the threshold, and stepped in careful silence toward the noise.

Finally, she reached the end. And the sight that met her; shocked her to her core.

Theon. Curled in filth—in hay. Rutting against his own flattened palm. Silver armor shimmered in the corner. All highborn clothes discarded for peasant rags. Hair unkempt. Unclean. Moans of her name—parted those swollen-red lips.

His name fell. She did not mean to speak it. Meant to flee this place—but then decided against it.

Sansa spent each night of the last three; crying. So, tears sprang easily to her eyes.

Theon jumped. As though struck. Yanked his hand free of his breeches—as though it might be bitten. And cowered in the shadows. Similar images of the first time she laid eyes upon him (just prior to wedding Ramsey), came to mind.

He told her their first night; he did not self-pleasure. Yet, here he laid, doing just that.

"M-My L-Lady." Tremors wracked his frame. It was not fear, she recognized, but his shame.

She should not have followed the trail of sounds. Should have left, well enough alone. Yet, now that she was here—she did not wish to leave him.

Not in this unraveled state.

Horror was written into her features at the mere thought of him calling this dingy space, home once again. This was unacceptable. Had Jon permitted this?

"You cannot be—Are you…sleeping out here?" Thick odors of hay, feces, and rotten wood, all blended to make the repugnant scent that coated Theon.

Broken nails dug into nearly healed palms. Skin tore, blood trickled down his wrists, as whole breaths were gulped in—then out. Bloodshot eyes were wide in terror, twitches began anew. And she witnessed him cringe in response.

"I m-must. I c-cannot be t-tempted, M-My Lady."

With widened eyes, Sansa listened. Witnessed the extent of which Theon was damaged. This was her doing—and Jon's. Surging forward, Theon was gathered into warm arms in one fell swoop.

He jerked. She felt the rough little movements. Slight. Shaking breaths.

"You are free now, Theon. Do you hear me? I assigned you those chambers. They are yours. This pen is not your home. You deserve the accommodations I gave you. Not this, Theon. Never this." Shamed eyes trained on the strands of hay. Refusing to meet her eye. Here. Huddled on the floor of this dingy space, Sansa imagined every bit of fear Theon must have known whilst he was a true prisoner. How low he had fallen in life. The degradation. Nasty spoken words.

"Forgive me, My Lady…" Haunted eyes stared at nothing. Refused still, to pair with hers.

"Have you been spying on me?" Faltering vocals, sounded.

Nails dug deeper within the newly opened wounds. In quick succession, Sansa reached to unclasp his nails. Straightening his fingers. Lowered pink petals to kiss, crimson blood-stained palms. Irony-scarlet liquid, coated them. The taste, strong.

"Don't. I forbid you, to harm yourself. Do you understand, Theon? I forbid you." Urgently, her eyes pleaded for him to heed her spoken words.

He twitched. But said nothing in recourse.

"I had words with, Jon." Shifting to a new subject; she sought to calm him.

His head rose up, eyebrows pulled taut. "You…did?"

"I did. He will not attack you, again." Sansa hoped the reassurance might bring him peace.

"I sullied your name. He should kill me for it."

Sullen eyes lowered. Sansa's heart sinking. No hopefulness was retained in throbbing chambers of her heart. Theon, claimed to harbor love for her—yet, she was not enough to incentivize him to live on. To fight to have her. Keep her.

"It is I that wishes for death. Death would be merciful. I told him I would leap from the tallest height I could find; you know. Promised him, if he sought to deprive me of you, that I would rather die. Such a foolish sentiment, considering that you alone, deprive me of, you." Pad of her index finger, made a trailed down his cheek. Across Theon's firm jaw.

"Sansa—"

"I know. You need not turn me away, again. I know I am not what you want. Apparently, your hand suffices." Jealousy waged war in her optics.

"I used my hand. Because I could not bear the burn for one more instant. You awakened that part of me, Sansa. You are that part of me. You make me burn for you. Only you. And I know not what can be done to tear this feeling asunder. Gods. I wish I did. It would save me…"

"Save you?"

No verbal response came. Only the crashed heat, as lips descended upon hers. One swooping action—and all walls broke. Shattered.

Torn from alongside him. She was made to straddle, bony hips. Kissed in devouring heat. Sweltered with lust—need. And lost to the fiery heat, from within.