Part 11; To Bare One's Soul.

And in the end, we were all just

humans drunk on the idea that love,

only love, could heal our brokenness.

Sansa

Nearly a month had transpired, since last she spoke to Theon—Her Theon.

She had watched, helplessly, as he faded right before her eyes. Withering in body, and spirit. Fearful of most touches. Insistent on his identity, as Reek.

Her persistence he stands before the Lords, and Ladies of the North, in declaration of their marriage—had broken him. Completely.

Forced to endure those harsh insults, fundamentally judged by those that knew him by name only—was unfair. Jon had managed to calm the flurry of discontented Lords, by declaring his own intent to wed, a Lady, befitting a Lord of Winterfell.

Soon, thereafter, the chatter had fizzled out. Leaving, Sansa to pick up whatever pieces remained, of the man she loved.

It took half of the month to convince, Theon to leave the pens at night. Even longer to convince him that curling upon the bear-fur rug, rather than her bed, alongside of her, was unnecessary. She believed, gradually, that she could draw him back to the surface.

She never quite expected he would resume his life, all at once. Awakening, as though he had always been there. As though, no semblance of time had passed.

With, questioning—strong—words she recognized, Theon. There was not expectancy in his eyes, for her permission to use the chamber pot, only shame that she was viewing him in such a position.

Drawn into his embrace, she felt up the front of him. Shuddered from his touch. Even though he trembled with weakness—his grip was firm. Comforting.

She had wasted away with him; felt the agony of her stomach clench, as hunger consumed her. Her bones wearing thin. Still—she had picked at morsels, sick with dread.

Now—She felt her strength returning. Just from his kisses; his reassurances.

"Theon…" She missed even the simplicity of speaking his name. As Reek—he would refuse to answer to his true name.

His nose nudged against her cheek. Warm breath, grazed her neck. And she shivered in pleasant sensation. She wondered what occurred in his mindscape. How he existed as two men. One that was partially whole—and one that was fragmented.

Her questions, exceedingly went unanswered, as she drowned in his arms. Felt the pulse of his stub, through the sheen nightgown. There was already arousal in him. Along with recognition.

"Take me as your wife, Tomorrow. No grand ceremonies—no nobility in attendance. Only the Maester, and Jon." Sansa coxed into his ear.

Her fingers dug into the tough, skin of his shoulders. Felt shivers ripple through the muscle underneath. In one fell swoop, Theon growled. Wrestling her to the bedsheets. For a glimmer—an instant—she saw into the eyes of the young man that had her pinned to the grassy-Earth. Her thighs spread, skirts up. She almost expected to feel the prod of his erection, underneath his nightgown—Almost.

Perhaps; it stunned him as well. He froze. Rigid, for a long moment. Then, closed his mouth over hers. Kissed in rough, little grunts. Disregarding her nightgown, he tore the fabric. Shredded it, in his haste to remove it from her. Then, kissed, licked, sucked, over her breasts. Across her chest, along either arm. Until he was trembling with pent-up, lust.

She yanked, tugging his nightgown over his head. Their bare skin met. Her fingers roamed. Over scars that littered his chest. Over the rough patch, where his right nipple, used to be, down to his pulsating, stub. He jerked at first contact with the nerve-riddled piece of him.

Violently, tore her hand from between their frames. He pinned her arms down. Then, met her drenched cunt, to his need. She let out a sigh of sheer ecstasy. Arcing her back off the bed. Rutting up her hips, as he rutted down in abandon. His moans were high-pitched. Almost dog-like whines. Sweat accumulated on their skin. Sticking them together, in the brunt of things.

Sansa should have felt trapped—maybe even frightened. But she missed seeing Theon this way. In control—oblivious to the world. The way he was, as a youth. The way he was—before.

She felt the pulse of her swollen pleasure-button. The heat radiated—burst—through every particle, in her bodice.

"Theon!" His name screeched from her lips. Loud enough that perhaps, the guard posted just outside the door, might hear. Her fist tightened in his hair. And his release was just as powerful. She felt him pulse against her. His remaining stub's attempt to release seed, as he once had.

Gradually, she began to come back down to Earth from the heights he soared her to. She was nearly able to open her hazy-eyes. When she felt his mouth, trailing kisses down her skin. Despite, his exhaustion—he was still moving. Letting tired, eyelashes shift downward, she viewed him in silent, wonder.

Then felt him duck between her thighs. Kissing trails down her left thigh. He planted a trembling kiss, to where her inflamed pearl peaked from between engorged, lips. She shivered. His tongue lapped at it a few times. Then ran between her lower lips. Collecting her juices, tasting her.

"T-Theon…" It was as though he awoke in heat. Needing to burn off the last few weeks of nothingness.

She bunched her hands into fists, and arched as he attacked her pearl. Sucking it between his lips. Letting madness all-but consume her being. Thoughts vanquished from her mind.

His fingers held her down, rough enough to bruise her pink skin. And she came again, over his face. She lost count of how long he stayed down there. Kissing, sucking, licking. Until she ached from far more releases than she imagined possible. And just needed his arms, to hold her.

He was near the foot of the bed. Seemingly burned out. His eyelids were heavy, lips puffy from use. And no longer so rough, as she reached out for him.

He nudged underneath the furs. Kissed her neck, with a single, little peck. Then, pushed her hair from her eyes. Shyly, his sea-green eyes, returned to the timid way he gazed, now. His body unburdened of all strain. Stress had parted with it.

Theon was silent; as was she. Her breath, attempting to catch up with her lungs. His arm wound around her waist, but Sansa feared sleep. Afraid she would awaken to Reek. So, despite her exhaustion, she turned in his grip. Locked their eyes together.

"Will I ever be able to simply hold you, without fear your mind will take leave, again?" Whispering in soft trills, she hummed.

Theon's eyes turned haunted. Skittering in movement. "No."

His answer pierced her, though she had known what it would be.

Another question skirted on the tip of her tongue. One she was uncertain about asking. Yet, it would not leave her mind.

"I laid awake every night. I would listen to you breathe. Pray to the Gods to return you safely to your mind. To piece you back together." Absently, her finger brushed over his surviving nipple. Taking note of his twitch, with every circle she made.

He was silent.

"You would speak. Sometimes. Broken little words. Others...whole sentences." She watched his Adam's apple bob. Still no words.

"When Ramsey…" She paused, regathering her nerve, "When he, cut you…How did it…happen?"

Theon shifted, wide-eyed. As though momentarily seeking out the trick in her words. And she felt her heart lurch. It was insensitive to seek his answer, but she had listened as he made those nighttime sentences. Heard, as he roused in his sleep.

Even with a fractured mind; she had felt him rouse. Twitch, in his sleep, even. Often, as though in pleasure, then screams of agony, had awoken him, as Reek.

Theon jolted upright, and Sansa's arm fell from its place, draped over his chest. "Why? Why would you wish to know that?" Joining him in an upright position, the furs slid down to bunch around her middle.

She bit her bottom pout. Hesitant to tell him.

"You would, talk in your sleep. Sometimes…You would, moan...and I would feel you—"

"S-Stop!" His shout, pierced the air, and she jolted. Stunned. He had never risen his voice to her. Not once. He usually complied. Despite his shame, or fear. Despite the trauma, he suffered.

Sansa swallowed. "P-Please…I cannot, M-My Lady…" All anger, that was present mere instances ago, vanished. Leaving behind the broken man, she had grown used to.

"I apologize. I intended no harm. I only meant—"

"To shame me…" His skin was reddened in color. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "You do so, well, My Lady."

It was not his shame she wanted. Only for him to be able to heal. If he woke himself screaming from the memory, he would never heal. Never.

"Never, Theon. And I am to be your wife, will you not call me, Sansa?" Inching nearer, she wrapped him in her arms.

He laid his head against her breast. And she released the breath of air she had not even realized she was withholding.

"He sent his bedwarmers to me. His playthings." He spoke distantly. As though through a hollow hall. Theon clenched his teeth. "They touched me. Rubbed on me. Claimed they wanted to see my cock for themselves—" Refusing to look at her, tears tread down his cheeks. He sniffled. "They stripped for me. Kissed me. Made me forget I was strung up on the rack, less than an hour before." Theon shivered, as Sansa brushed dainty fingers over his cheek. Grazing his stubble, with her thumb.

"He became jealous. So, he—they held me down. The girls watched as he—I was still erect when he…removed it." Horrified, Sansa felt him lean into her. Seeking out comfort, reassurance.

His trauma was absolute. Emotions splintered with self-hatred.

"Theon…I am sorry..." The words felt meaningless. How could she ever belay what she felt, hearing about the torture he endured? The lack of humanity? The receiving end of which she had known herself. No words possibly could suffice. Not for this.

"Does the knowledge, please you?" The words lacked the contempt, from moments ago. He merely sounded, defeated. Tired, well beyond his years.

"Of course not." She smoothed her fingers over his brow. "I hate to watch you suffer. I feel so helpless. Ramsey is gone, but you still are not free of him."

"I will never be free. Never."

She gazed long, and hard into his forlorn optics—and knew. He was right. In all this world—she knew no way to set him free. Not while he carried this unforgiving mutilation—and would until, he died. So, she held him. Listened to his breathing. His tears. And had no answers to give.