Part 10; A Break in Time

Paradoxically, we achieve

true wholeness only by

embracing our fragility

and sometimes, our brokenness.

Theon

It felt as though the world had crashed in upon him. As though every lungful of air—was strained.

Ramsey, used to call him 'abomination' once. Before settling on the term, 'reek'. Theon vividly recalled the strain of his sore, muscles. His wrists tied firmly to the wooden 'X'; ankles tied the same. Splayed so wide—not an inch could be budged in any direction.

Those unkind—brutal—words, had sent him right back there. Right back to the place of existence between life, and death.

Every instant of his horror was relived in the broken crevices of his mind. When those beautiful, soft, girls teased him with kisses. Ground down, until he was swollen with need. Pulsed to the core with lust. Then, the rough, unforgiving hands of his captor. With the help of those girls; Theon had been held down. Feminine fingers, had, opened the ties to his breeches. Kissed the long stem of his neck—bearing witness to his shame as Ramsey sawed at the base of his cock.

Searing pain had blinded him. Rendered him unconscious, from shock. The blood-red, crimson stain where his manhood, had been. All he had to remember that piece of him by, were lingering phantom aches. That—and the stench.

Gods—the stench. Filth, accumulated over time.

Sheer agony—and lack-thereof of freedom from the 'X' kept him helpless. Dependent on Ramsey. Completely. It was after a night of being cock-less. Morning sun shone, even into the darkest corners of decrepit walls. Left to his own devices, after the sheer cruelty of Ramsey consuming pork sausage right in front of him—without indication from his broken, body—streaming rivulets of piss had soaked down his breeches. Stung with acrid liquid; his own body had shamed him—tortured him. Right before Ramsey.

It was incontinency, he suffered. Several weeks after. Unpermitted to so much as know freedom from the wooden rack; Ramsey—or the feminine beauties would feed him. Body odor—and his own bodily functions, helped cement the name.

Abomination—became Reek.

There was so much more than just his manhood lost in that dark place—but all dignity, too.

All self-structure. All awareness. Became torture. Still, even now—when he would squat like a woman to relieve himself—it would sting, mildly. Sometimes—he struggled to make it to a chamber pot on time.

The reek, Ramsey named him for—would always return.

Always.

Stranded, in discomfort. Theon, felt warm fingers in thick sandy-curls. Shuddering. Theon swept closer for warmth. Awakened from past consternation. The burn from his need to urinate is what brought upon unpleasant dreams.

Theon, squirmed in the rose-scented arms of the Lady Sansa. Every time nature called—he did his business in the privacy of the privy. The privy was far—and he would not make it there. Untangling from her—ignoring the coo of soft words, in question of his movements. Shamefully—he tugged out the chamber pot. Squatted over it—and relieved himself. Like a female it sprayed everywhere, now.

For years, Theon, took for granted his ability to stand—hold himself—and aim. There was no longer enough left—to hold.

Sansa came rapidly into realization as to his needs. But her eyes did not turn from him. He felt the burn in his loins—as she watched the shame he was reduced to.

Ramsey had beat him, once he was released from the cross. Beat into his skin, with cracks of a leather belt. Each time he dared have an accident. For the first weeks, it was so agonizing, Theon had procrastinated until the last possible moment (by then it was far too late to hope to make it to a chamber pot, or privy) and lived up to his name. Forced to wear about, his stained breeches as proof he was unhouse-broken. Worth less than the hounds he retired, alongside.

His tormentor, enjoyed pointing out, his worthlessness in that regard.

It was rare, when he could not make it, now.

Still, he could imagine the repulsion on Sansa's face, when it inevitably occurred.

Finished; Theon replaced the lid, shoving the wretched pot out of sight.

How long had it been since he lost consciousness in her arms? He vaguely recalled sifting in, and out of consciousness. Being present—then not. Reliving moments as Reek. Being Reek.

White woven, fabric of his nightgown, felt unfamiliar on his skin. Only because, moments ago (in unconsciousness) he had been back on the torture rack.

"You do not have to hide from me, you know." Smooth fingers massaged his scalp.

Theon grit his jaw, in solemnness. "Is it not enough, you have seen what is left of me, there? You would also see me, use the privy?" It was taken far more subjectively, than he had meant to.

There was so little he had left, that was only his. With Ramsey departed; using the privy was the one thing no living person saw him do—until now.

Perhaps, it was an overreaction. Theon, merely felt enough shame—he did not wish to feel more. And when he saw that sympathy written into her Tully-blues. It damaged him.

As the haze from the departure of his senses, cleared—more, and more came into view.

"You do not recall? Theon? Is it…Are you…okay?" Thumbs found his cheekbones. He leant into the touch. Closed his eyes against the warmth.

"Recall?" Drowsy words wavered in the air.

"I was so afraid…Afraid I lost you…" Less, and less sense came from her mouth, the more she spoke out.

Tears accumulated in her eyes. Dark-circles he did not recall, last night were almost a part of her skin. Almost, as though they were a piece of her now. When she drew into his embrace, he could feel almost all of her bones. Had she been eating? He could not remember her so thin.

His own arms, felt weak. Tired. Bones, protruded from just underneath his pale, sickly, skin.

Looking more closely, Sansa's pigment was sickly. Normally poignant scarlet-tresses, dulled. Almost auburn in color. Confused, he circled his thumb over the strands, through his fingers.

"Lost me…?" He repeated. Head pounding.

She gave a nod. Still worriedly searching him over.

"You became Reek. Spoke as you once did. You would ask for my permission to use the privy. You thought…" She blinked, biting back tears. "You thought…I was Ramsey. That I might…punish you, if I did not give you permission first…You have been Reek for a month…You cowered from me. Pleaded that I not punish you. You would stand in one place. Stay there for hours. One of the servants found you drenched in…urine…you would not move on your own. I could barely…barely get you to speak. Or eat…I thought you were…gone...for good…"

Theon felt lightheaded. The endless dreams—they were real. He had been trapped in the endless haze of torture—fear.

One truth, Theon knew above all others—he could never leave Sansa. Not really.

Despite the unworthiness carved into his depths, she was a part of him. And he was a part of her.

Sansa's arms wound, about his neck. Petals touched to his lips. And he suckled on her bottom petal. Moaned into the kiss. He felt touch-starved. Invoked with weeks of depravity. And just like that—the phantom arousal sprouted in his loins. Without the existence of his manhood—he felt raw; achy down there.

Oftentimes, aroused. And in urgent need of a feminine touch, despite there being no attached part any longer. Ramsey's taunting voice sounded in his consciousness. Cruel curiosity as to whether he might ache in close proximity to a beautiful girl—He did.

Each time he held Sansa. The space where his cock once was, brutally ached for the warmth of a woman's, tight depths. Sansa the holy grail of which he would never know. Never. Only with eager fingers, which was by far different.

"What of you? Have you not eaten?" Theon broke apart from her lips. Searched her ocean-blue eyes. Searching for a tether to ground him. A foothold in reality.

Her head shook. Timidly. "I was sick with grief. I mourned what I brought upon you."

His stomach churned. "I am broken, Sansa. You did not break me. Ramsey did. I will always remain broken."

"Please—I will do anything. Just do not leave me again." Sansa burrowed her face into his neck. And he drank in her sweat-laced scent.

"I will try. Always try, for you. And always, return."

And he meant it.

Always.