Part 15; To Wish till You Bleed.

I hate this feeling.

Like I am here but I am not.

Like someone cares.

But they don't.

Like I belong somewhere else,

Anywhere but here.

Theon

The absence of Sansa—Theon felt everywhere.

He had once told her that he was not meant to be a husband. A lover. He was far too broken to react to her touches—but he did.

She rediscovered the sexual urges in him, ten-fold. The comfort he could find in a woman's arms. In Sansa's arms—only hers.

And then—Ramsey took it all away. From beyond the grave he reached—And took away Theon's light.

His hope.

Jon found countless reasons to keep him from Winterfell's halls. Sent him on errands into the village. Had him on horseback, for days at a time. He had vowed his servitude to House Stark. To Sansa, and Jon, had they need of him.

Which, was how he became Sansa's nighttime guard, in the first place.

Now, he found the absence of her touch, unbearable. She would not see him. Theon need not ask Jon, to know. His forced absences from Winterfell, told him enough. Enough to shatter his heart. He replayed their wedding night. Turned it over, and over in his mind.

The bliss he felt when she teased him. Touched him just perfectly, until they came apart in time to one another. Had he thought it was a night for her to say goodbye? He might have held her longer. Slept at her side, rather than by the fire, due to the chill in his bones.

He would have savored her.

Now, he imagined how she might scold him, (As she had that night.) if she witnessed his hand rabidly palming his stub. Pushing to find pleasure, from the stress of being alone.

Nights where he pictured his wife, bare, on top of him. Touching him, rubbing against him. And he felt such shame. When he trembled, and came apart from the sheer memory of it.

He wanted to speak to her. To apologize for what he had done.

He was uncertain of his misstep, but he assumed it was claiming the child. It was not his child. And once the Lords, and Ladies would come to know of her pregnancy—then birth—they would taunt him again.

Insist, that Sansa could not find pleasure in him—So she sought it elsewhere.

He could withstand, all of it—this time—if he only could convince her to forgive him.

After the latest wild-goose-chase, he was sent upon; Theon, thought he might freeze to death. His horse had refused to go on. The Earth had been covered in depths of snow—it was apparent—winter had come. The blizzard had been so thick, Theon could hardly, see through the falling snow.

More than once, he thought of laying down—letting the storm consume him—but he powered through. He made it back to Winterfell—sans horse.

He could take no more.

He would not go on another pointless rendezvous, at Jon's behest. If Sansa wanted him out of sight—he would remain out of sight.

Bundled under furs, his freezing joints screamed at him as he huddled near the fire. His chambers were lonely. Even more-so than the roads, themselves. But he thanked the Gods for the warmth of his chambers, all-the-same.

He had decided, long ago—he did not deserve to die.

Ramsey had tormented him for sport. Kicked at him, punched him. Whipped him. Cut him. So many scars littered his body, that he could no longer feel smooth skin, upon his person, anywhere.

Perhaps, Jon was doing the same, in his own manner. After all, whilst Ramsey brutalized Sansa (causing this pregnancy) Theon did nothing to prevent it. To help her. It was his eternal burden to bear. And he did. Bear it.

Sansa, promised he would be free. But he did not feel free. He felt caged. Barred off from the object of his affections, sent on burdensome errands, and all-the-while just hoping she would come to him. And forgive him.

It had been an hour, since he came to the gates. Trembling; half-frozen solid. Helped by servants, whom took pity on him. Bathed in steaming hot water, until the feeling returned to his hands, and feet. And helped into clothing, he had not seen, since first he departed Winterfell, with Robb.

The tunic was loose on him. Breeches, too.

Theon had lost considerable weight, as Reek.

And now—it was difficult to grow the weight back.

Eating was a challenge for him. Ramsey broke several of his teeth whilst torturing him. Tore out back molars, at times, for kicks. His gums were sore. And the lingering depression that surrounded him, also prevented him from incurring an appetite.

Sipping, hot tea, Theon let the liquid, burn down his throat. His hands barely able to grip the mug with any precision.

The wooden door creaked open. And Theon glanced hopefully up, only to find Jon hovering above him.

Almost instantaneously, Theon began to wrack with violent, trembles.

"Please Jon, please…D-Do not make me go b-back out there…I-I…I will n-never go n-near Sansa, again…Just…P-Please…I b-beg you…" His hands unable to grip the mug, let it cascade to the floor. Spilling liquid into a puddle. Tears, blinded his vision, as he descended into distress.

Each time he saw Jon, it was with the intention of sending him out on another errand. Perhaps to collect taxes, or frighten a villager into submission. Whatever, the errand, Theon could not withstand it.

He was so infused with the chill of the winter air; it had nearly become part of him now. His bones, felt frozen solid. He found it impossible to grow warm.

"I am not here, to send you on another errand." Jon reassured, although the sincerity did not, reach his eyes.

Theon felt momentary, relief, "T-Then…why?"

"I heard you had taken ill. Lost your horse, among other things." Jon surveyed him with calm, disillusionment. As though, unmoved by the scene before him.

Perhaps, Jon would never find compassion for him. Theon could not possibly blame him for it. Why should he be shown compassion? After all he had done?

"I…did not take ill, I almost d-died…The b-blizzard set upon me, and I-I could n-not…The horse w-would not g-go on." Theon reached for the fallen mug, planting it on the end-table nearby.

"I see." Jon seemed out of sorts. Perhaps even out of place.

Theon dared to pipe up, "Is…Is S-my wife, well?" He thought better of speaking her name, so casually. He feared even using the term, wife.

Jon's eyes flashed, almost a dark shade. As though he were hiding something—haunted. But just as quickly, the dark-glimmer departed. "She is well."

Theon's eyes lowered at the vague response. He craved any real news of her. Any sighting of her. He had not seen her since the morning after their wedding. Not once. From the servant's tales; she refused to leave her chambers.

"But she s-still, will not permit me to see her?" Theon spoke in an octave, just above a whisper.

Jon's eyes hardened. Jaw set. "She needs more time."

Theon had glanced up, hopefully. Upon hearing Jon's words; his head dropped, dejected. He gave his all to fight through a storm, to survive. For her. And she did not want him.

She would not even come herself to check on him. To warm him…

He had truly lost her.

Theon forced himself to nod. Forced himself not to fall apart—again.

"I-I am t-tired…" Theon offered him an out. And Jon took it. Appearing almost relieved to not have to spend more time than he already had, in these chambers.

"Rest, then. You need it." And with that, Jon disappeared through the door. Swinging it shut in his haste.

Only then, did Theon break apart. Only then—did he shudder with exhaustion—with loss. Only then—did he finally, break.

Theon was unconscious for a long time. The fire was wholly extinguished, only wisps of smoke came off of the ashes. Shuddering, violently, it was the chill that awoke him.

Theon piled a few logs onto the fire, scrambling to reignite the flames. Once it roared back to life, he basked in the warmth. Listened to the familiar crackle.

The sun was long since down, and the night had settled in. He could hear an owl in the distance. And solemnly, he straightened, feeling the ache of his muscles, and bones.

Theon tired, of being alone. Of being so lonely.

Aching in his soul for Sansa, he wished she were here. That she would strip him of his clothes, and instruct him to press in near to her, for comfort—For solidarity.

Like before.

He awoke with a throb between his thighs. His stub was awakened by thoughts of her bodice. Naked. Pressed tight to him.

It made him nearly moan, out loud in aggravation. How long would she punish him? He felt sick, with the not knowing. With the vague promise of—someday.

Finally, he decided that if he could only speak to her. Just speak—He could be forgiven.

She might finally, finally, let him return to her chambers. He might not have to slumber alone.

Theon, made up his mind.

Decidedly, he would sneak into her chambers, (Find a way to bypass the guard) and convince her to allow him to return. She used Jon to belay every message for a reason. Perhaps, she could not deny him to his face.

Theon, cracked open his door. Peered out into the long, darkened corridor.

No one in sight.

Inching his way along the stone, Theon ignored the chill of the cold against his bared feet. Instead, he thought of the warmth of his Sansa. His wife's arms.

Might she embrace him? Kiss him? Tell him she forgave him? He prayed she might.

When he reached her chambers, the door was unmanned. Not a guard in sight. Theon's brows drew together. If he had known she no longer had a man posted at her door, he might have attempted this feat, sooner.

Undeterred, Theon crept to her door. And opened it. Conscious of the creaky hinges, he was slow to inch it open. Even, more careful, to close it.

The fire was lit in the fireplace, and the only sense of light in the room. But Theon was used to existing in the darkness. As Reek he had been provided very little light to guide his tasks at Winterfell. He memorized this place. Long ago.

Inching near, Theon recognized her silhouette. She was partially uncovered, her breasts on display. Theon grimaced, as his already achy stub tightened, blood pulsing to alert him to his incessant urge to touch her.

Theon reached out to touch her—then recognized another silhouette.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

Jon lay sprawled alongside of her. Also partially uncovered by the furs. His shirt absent. Sansa made a slight huff in her sleep. And turned. Right into the nook of Jon's arm. Jon drew her near, reactively. And her head nuzzled onto his chest. Her hand resting over his heart.

Theon jerked his hand back from where it was frozen, mid-air.

Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it down. Tears engulfed his eyes.

So, this is what Jon was hiding.

Sansa's six moon pregnant, belly pushed outward now. With evident growth of the babe within. Theon bit down, hard on his knuckle to prevent himself from sobbing. He bit until the blood pooled, and ran down his wrist. Until, it soaked into the sleeve of his long-sleeved oversize tunic.

He felt hollow. Gutted out.

Worse than the way he felt when Ramsey took his cock. When he was mutilated everywhere.

Theon hated himself. He hated Ramsey. Jon—Himself.

Most of all himself.

For being such a fool.

His other hand clenched, and dug until blood oozed from his palm. The healed scars, reopened there. And finally—finally, he managed to yank himself away from the scene. Drew open the door, and closed it behind him. He fled to his chambers.

To the fireplace, where he curled on the settee. And sobbed, until his throat was hoarse. His eyes hurt—and his lungs were painful. Until, he thought he might die, from the agony, of his heart breaking. And psyche shredding apart.