Part 9; To Break Apart Spirit.

So, you plant your own

gardens and decorate

your own soul, instead of

waiting for someone to bring

you flowers.

Theon

Nestled close to the single-most object of his affections. Theon contemplated the life they might lead. One—he thought lost to him, forever. Skin to his skin—and bone hard against his, Theon's thoughts scattered.

Night encompassed the secluded, darkness of Sansa's bedchambers. Once, there was a time when he was forbidden from this little oasis. When these chambers, belonged to Lord, and Lady of Winterfell. Ned. Caitlin.

Stark-naked, Theon lay skin-clad against that of hers. Sleep had overcome his beauty. Life stained the encompass of what he was. Prevented the easy depths of sleep to merely come to him. Instead, Theon laid awake.

Despite his oath to Sansa—There was still fear. It enraptured the very precipice of his heart. Stung his insides. Reminders of Sansa's innocence once; never strayed too far from view.

Never.

But were they not both innocent? Once.

Once. And torturous realization that he once could have claimed that innocence—gnawed his belly from the inside—out.

Now, navigating the broken strands of his mentality, felt almost like an endless abyss. As though he were caught—trapped—between the seven hells—and the present.

Moments, where he hesitated to recall his location—his general safety—came into play. Theon, loathed for Sansa to view his weakness.

His unequipped state of mind.

He vowed forever—but today was all that could truly be spoken for.

Tomorrow was a haze of unknown potential to him.

It always would be, now.

Sansa

There was a general stunned silence, that resounded as the announcement of their union was made. Those gathered around, whispered.

Surely, by day's end the entire seven kingdoms would hear of the broken heir to the Iron Islands—vowing a union with Lady Sansa.

It took no genius to recognize the brokenness in Theon. Even as his stoic stance, alongside of her—remained. There were twitches, every few moments. He would never be sane; never whole. And yet….

She could not relinquish her hold on him.

It was unbearably selfish; but she was in love with him. Despite all of it.

Some would be repulsed by the years Theon spent in a hound-pen. Caked in filth. Reeking of hound, feces, piss, and other foul odors. Repulsed by the twitchy manner he existed. The way he would hobble, due to the torture his feet endured—all of him. The way he so clearly, repulsed a great many of the gathered nobles—even the servants.

Not her. Never her.

Theon was kind—good.

Everything a Lord (Sansa once desired to marry) should be. Despite the faults of his past; she forgave them. Theon was arrogant, once. Unkind in many ways. Yet, still she had taken a fancy to him—even then.

But only the course of their tortured lives, could have brought them together. Into the mix of this scandalous union. Aggravation shone in Jon's eyes as he recognized the outright shock, in Winterfell's people.

"How can you sanction this union? It is not a true, union!" One of the outraged Lord's spoke up. Sansa felt Theon shrink away from those poisonous eyes as they landed upon him.

Sansa made careful rubs up his arm, in silent attempts to calm him, prior to speaking up on her own behalf—right over her brother.

"And what do you think, Lord Hornwood? That I am incapable of choosing my own union?" Bolstering tones, emitted from her lips. Silencing the whispers.

The man appeared taken aback.

"It is improper for this…this—" Lord Hornwood gestured to Theon, grasping for words.

"This, what?" Sansa felt Theon's grip tighten on her. He was near to fleeing—she could feel it in her bones. So, she gripped tighter. Silently, forbidding him from doing so.

"—Abomination!" A few other Lords grunted, and guffawed in agreement.

Theon winced; twitch worsened. And she witnessed the fading of his own cognizance from his eyes.

"Aye! A man with no cock is nary a man at all!" Another piped up from the crowd. And a few more uttered their agreements.

"I mean-Just look at him!" Lord Hornswood, gestured a second time. "Cowering like some, soft, woman!"

Sansa rubbed up and down the length of his arm in calm, soothing gestures. Regardless, Theon was unraveling right beside her, all the same.

Tears built in those delicate, sea-green eyes. Muscles tightened underneath the skin—and she felt his walls building up. Walls that only she could eviscerate. Between them—in the sanctuary of her bedchambers; no walls need exist. They were safe, together. This—on the other hand—was open. Exposed. Uncomfortable in every conceivable, manner.

Still. She would power through—even if Theon could not.

His head lowered; refusing to meet anyone's eye. Refusing even, to permit himself the pride he deserved.

"This man, is a Lord! Just as any of you are! He is a survivor! And he saved my life!"

"So, you give him a position as a guard, as recognition! Not your bodice!" Jolts shocked through Sansa's spine. Her shock must have shone on her face—because he continued. "Oh, yes! I heard of how you were found, rutting with him in the hound pens. Is that not where he used to sleep?"

Theon could clearly take no more. With shame—he fled. Yanked his hand free of hers, and ran—more like hobbled—out of the hall.

Sansa longed to stay behind—defend Theon—but the call towards him was far stronger than her will to be in this place.

She gave a pleading glance to Jon, and he returned a nod. His meaning clear; he would handle this. With that—she took off.

Near to a half-hour of searching for him; until she found him. Huddled in the safety of his pen. Just as she had found him two days prior. When the shameful, comforting act they sought; apparently became public knowledge.

The neat-tidiness of his curls were lost now. Hair strands were sticking up on end. Theon's knuckles were caked with drying blood. Nails broken to bits; eyes wide. Petrified. Sansa knelt to his level. Captured his hands in her own, gripped them in contemplative, need, to help.

"T-Theon…" Silent tears streaked down her pale cheeks, to match his. "Theon, w-what have you done?" He twitched. Then closed his eyes, as pitiful sobs came. Two tears rolled down his cheeks.

"They are right—I am an abomination."

Her head shook in refusal to accept his proclamation. "They are wrong. You are Theon. My Theon. You could never be that wretched, thing they speak of. Never you…"

Soft petals caught the edge of his broken fingers. Ignored the iron-taste of his blood. Kissed until, his warm life-force was smeared over her pretty-pink lips. Then on to his knuckles. Each scratched bit of skin, torn off—made better with her tranquility.

"Ramsey, made me a monster…His monster-" Theon's hands shook. Tremors wracking through them. His eyes glimpsing the bloodied things, as though he could not recognize them.

"No—No! Hear me, Theon. We are one soul. One being. Without you, I will fall apart. You are mine. I am yours. There is no me, without you. If you are a monster, then I am one too. I became what Ramsey made me."

She was so desperate to make him understand. So very desperate to belay all of this to him.

"I forbid you from becoming, Reek. Please—Do not leave me. You promised. You promised me…."

Tears rolled down the circumference of his cheeks, hair wisps blew in the drafty pen.

He descended into sobs so deep, they shook through his entire spine. But he did not speak. Fear swept through her. She climbed astride his lap. Rocked him in her arms. Swept her fingers through his curls. And pleaded within his ear.

"Stay with me…Just stay. Please…" Gods. She wished for his pain to be gone.

But it never wished to depart. It remained. Weighing on him.

She felt it in her soul.