Part 17; To Fade into Time Past

Broken things like me

are better alone.

Reek

Six months ago.

Shrieks wracked unimpeded throughout Sansa's chambers. So loud, echoes coursed down the hall. Servants hurried on, unwilling to hear their Lady in debilitating pain.

Reek flinched.

No one had paused to consider his screams. The brutalization of his flesh.

The loss of his—

He could not think of it.

He was not that person any longer. Never. Never would he be again.

Once—He could not recall—he might have had a name…been a man?

Sansa. Warm, bountiful, Sansa. With her blue optics that reminded him of the ocean waves as they crashed ashore. She would plead for a man that was no more.

Theon.

She would speak that name at him. Persist he was a man.

He was not a man. Never a man. Just a Reek. Disgusting. Smelly. Cock-less. Reek.

Still, he shattered the goblet; clumsy (remaining) fingers, slipped. Ceramic met stone. Coming apart into microscopic pieces. Reek shuddered.

With aching bones, he bent over double. Retrieving the pieces from whence they landed. Cutting his fingers on sharp, edges. Blood mixing in with the shattered bits on the stone. Tears pricked at his eyes.

His right hand, had missing fingers. As did his left. His pinkie, and index on his left. And middle on his right. Gone. Flashes of his intact fingers drawing the string of a bow, arrow attached, came to mind. He shoved the memory down. No one else was here. Only Reek.

Cleaning the mess, Reek returned to the kitchens. Discarding the broken pieces into the rubbish bin. Glancing solemnly down at his cut-up fingers. Pain was all relevant now. When night came—there would be pain. Ramsey liked to see Reek's pain. His despair.

Hurrying from the kitchens, Reek hobbled. Cramps jolting to every muscle of his foot. Right up into the joints. His bone still had not healed. It was jutted inward at an odd angle on top of his foot. Excruciating pain would ensue, as the bone attempted to heal, without being properly aligned.

Reek peered around the bend. Silence now pierced the corridor. Still, it was abandoned. All servants gone. Ramsey, must have gone, too. His victim done with.

With trembling wrists, Reek pulled the jangling keys from the pocket of his rags. Shuddering with abandon, as he clicked the lock open. He wanted to see the sanguine-haired dream. When she goaded him to admit a truth against Ramsey's express permission—her attitude changed. Softened toward him.

Reek ached when he saw her. Her familiarity. It was ancient. But he braved, Ramsey's wrath to check in on her.

Master would not be happy. But Reek chanced it.

Sansa jolted upon hearing the door creak. Wild-eyes locked on his. Recognition came; and he limped to her bedside. He touched over her skin, where bruises ornamented her once, pure flesh. Traces of his blood stained her skin.

Despite the stench that permanently clung to him, Sansa drew him into her arms. And drank him in.

Reek's back stiffened. Skin crawled. His stench was potent. He stank of the pen he slept in. Soiled hay. Hound feces. Unwashed male. And most potently, human urine. He leaked often, unable to make it to a privy, or chamber pot—and Ramsey only gave him two sets of rags. Forbidden from washing either, but once a month—he felt self-conscious, with Sansa.

Separating from her touch; Reek's eyes dropped. It stung him to touch her. But to look upon her—was a treat.

Pain flashed in her eyes. And she lowered back onto the bed-furs. "T-Theon."

He flinched.

"R-Reek, My Lady." He often corrected her. Let her understand there was no one else. Just what Ramsey made of him.

"H-Help m-me..." Each night, he could, he came to fill the space at her bedside. And every night she pleaded the same of him. Help.

There was no help. No help coming. No help to have. Even this kindness, he provided her, could potentially come at a price.

Reaching out, Theon linked his disfigured right hand, with her unharmed, left one. Her middle finger scraped over the calloused nub where his middle used to be. Before.

"Look what he has done to me, Theon." Reek's haunted sea-green optics trained on her face. Ramsey had marked her pretty face with bruises. Purplish-blemishes the size of fingertips had pressed in on creamy skin. Peppered all along her shoulders, around her throat. Choking was one of Ramsey's favorite games.

Reek shuddered.

Sansa lowered her hand, drew up her nightdress. Reek's eyes widened. Head shook. He did not desire to see her bare. Not with the ache it would bring. Aches Reek should not have. He was not a man. Not human. Just one of the hounds.

His eyes adverted. "M-My L-Lady." Pleas flooded the air.

Flinching. Twitching. Reeks mind went blank.

Cuts littered Lady Sansa's flesh. Poisoned her purity. Bruises. Angry red-risen lengths of cuts were prominent. All-consuming. Reek had similar renditions of those marks. Worst of which, was a stubby part distended from his groin.

Her hand entwined around his wrist. Drew his mutilated hand to graze her equally marred skin. Just at that instant. The door burst open. Ramsey stood, perched in the doorway. Reek lurched back. Tumbled onto his bum. And cowered.

"What have we here, Reek? Are you playing with my toy, without permission? Hm?" Sadistic connotations laced his icy, voice.

"M-Master…N-No. C-course not…Forgive m-me, M-Master."

Sansa lowered her nightdress, having sat up. Her back was rigid against the headboard. Eyes darting around helplessly.

"I m-made him. He has d-done nothing."

"Silence, whore! I will deal with you, later. But I think Reek here needs to learn a thing or two, more about obedience. Don't you Reek?"

Reek shivered. "P-Please…"

"Say please, one more time, and I will make you wish you had not." Ramsey spewed in a bored tone. Icy-blue eyes landed on Reek.

Reek fell silent. Wringing his hands until they cramped.

"Come along, Reek."

Reek followed. Head down, eyes unable to meet Sansa's, directly out of her bedchambers. Surrendering the keys entrusted to him, by Ramsey without need to be asked.

He did not chance even one more glance in Sansa's direction.

Not even one.

"Reek, Reek, Reek…You have disappointed me." Ramsey relinquished an exasperated sigh. Several minutes later, leather straps secured wrists, and ankles to the 'X' where Reek had been born.

Terror-stricken, wide-eyes focused on Ramsey's dark silhouette in the low lighting of the Winterfell dungeon.

Ragged tunic had been stripped from him. Burned in the fire nearby. Ramsey wielded a knife. The blade jagged, easily able to tear skin, if applied, just right.

Reek whimpered, "P-Please—"

"What did I say about that word? How I despise that word." Ramsey's fist connected with his jaw. Hard. Blood oozed from his mouth, as he cut his lip on his teeth. Drooling, Reek's jaw slackened a cracked bit of tooth fell to the stone.

Reek sobbed, crimson-drool coating his chin. "I d-did not m-mean to t-touch her, M-My L-Lord."

"You know. I wonder what reason you would have to be in my wife's chambers, alone, Reek. You smell, repulsive. And you could not possibly fuck her with that little stub I left you with. Now could you?"

Reek turned his head, and sobbed. Twitched.

"I asked you a question, Reek." Ramsey made a firm grip through his birches. Clenched his fingers tight enough to make Reek, squeal.

What was left down there, still palpitated on occasion. Still healed, from the cauterization, after Ramsey cut him.

"N-No, I c-cannot f-f-fuck her." Tones of agreement parted instantly. He would say anything so as not to lose another slice of his body—But there was no preventing it.

"I think you need to be reminded of your place, Reek. Would you not say so?" Ramsey's face upturned in a stomach-churning smirk.

This time Ramsey did not await an answer. Merely carved a chunk out of his side, as penance.

Reek squealed. Shrieked, until his voice turned high-pitched. And whiny.

When it was over, Ramsey cut him down. Reek stumbled on his feet; tears rimmed his optics.

"Come, Reek."

Reek followed. Shirtless. Bleeding. Through corridors, past unmoved servants—right into the snow-laden outdoors. Coated in a thin sheen of snow. Reek's remaining teeth, chattered. Hands grazed over goose-pimpled arms.

Even the shelter of the hound pens was still icy, cold. Reek went rigid as Ramsey guided him toward the pen, he slept in. Suddenly, aware of his intentions. "M-My Lord…Please…" Reek pleaded.

Steely eyes pierced through to his soul. He spoke that word. "Get on your knees, Reek."

Snot trekked in long streaks down his upper-lip. Spittle dribbled from his slightly agape jaw. His inner-mouth still bled from the cut, and broken tooth.

"NOW!" Reek dropped, pitifully.

Ramsey's rough, coarse fingers dug into Reek's flesh. Spun him around, with no patience. Reek attempted to crawl away—if only to save himself the dignity of this—but his defiance only angered Ramsey further. Pinning Reek's face into the hay, Ramsey tugged his breeches round his knees.

Without warning—nor preparation—the blunt end of Ramsey's cock seared, and tore open his rear entrance. His anal muscles clamped; hard down in protest. Which only caused further distress to Reek.

The pain was the worst it had ever been. Blood dribbled down, leaking on his skin. Ramsey moaned.

"If you could feel how tight you are, Reek. You would know you were made to be my little hound bitch. You were never made to be inside a woman's cunt, especially not Sansa's. You were made to be used like one, instead."

Reek squealed in pain—Humiliation. Being torn for Ramsey's pleasure, exceedingly took its toll. Especially, tonight. Tonight, was the worst it had ever been. Disfigured hands curled into tight fists in the straw. Drool, soaked into the foul, scented straw. And Ramsey made a point of dragging, explorative fingertips over his carefully, shaved, pelvis.

"Soft…just like a woman." Ramsey, taunted. Rutting with abandon into Reek's torn sphincter.

The pain exceeded his tolerance—the humiliation, too. Something had to give.

And it did.

Reek felt urine spray his legs. Drenching the hay; and his half-mast birches.

Descending into sobs, Reek let his mind go. His thoughts detach—quivering with violence, from the frigid cold, Reek prayed to freeze to death.

To let it be over.

Everything be over.

"Filthy. Incontinent, hound!" Ramsey pinched his stub—hard enough to make him bleed there.

It drew him back—even if he did not want to be present.

He was made to be.

He felt all of it. Up until Ramsey spilled inside of him. Hot seed pumped into him. And he was kicked, right down, into his own filth. Onto his still throbbing—and bleeding—stub.

Ramsey straightened his own breeches. Tucked himself, away—and sought out the corner where Reek's spare rags were kept. Lifting Reek's second pair of breeches, Ramsey rounded on him. "You will stay in your own piss. Do you hear me, Reek? You will wear them for a week! And maybe, if I feel you have been punished enough, I will give this back to you." He dangled the non-soiled pair in front of Reek's tear-stained face.

Reek was still slumped. Rear end in the air. Smelling of his own accident, and Ramsey's pungent, salty-seed.

"S-Sorry."

"No. You are not sorry yet, but you will be. Now, return to Lady Sansa's chambers. You are to bathe her, immediately." With that, the keys were thrown onto Reek's crumpled tunic.

Reek's eyes widened in horror. Sansa would see him…like this…before he had a chance to even dry…?

He willed himself not to plead. Not to beg for mercy. There was never any mercy.

Never.

Countless minutes it took, for Reek to find his footing. To manage the feat of pulling up his sodden breeches, to press against his bleeding stub. The acrid liquid stung him. Irritated his bleeding part. His gums hurt—inner cheek was swelling from the cut—and his last—undamaged—upper molar was now jagged.

Reek broke down against the unforgiving wall of the pen. So cold, his skin was blue. But Reek was also so numb—he could not feel his upper-half—and that was the only sense of mercy he knew. The sliced off slab of his side, had not yet, scabbed over. He tugged on his now—only—tunic, and exited from his pen. Walking with a sort of waddling-hobble from the unrelenting ache of his sphincter.

He learned.

Ramsey taught—Reek learned.

Sansa was too pretty to look at, and fantasize about. Too ravishing. And he was nothing. A hound. A monstrosity.

Incontinent.

He was whatever Ramsey made him.

Repulsed by his stench; the servants gave him a wide birth. Children pointed in quiet giggles. Soldiers barely contained a smirk of supremacy. Even kitchen wenches hid behind their hands to staunch laughter.

Reek's eyes lined with tears. But he made no move to speak. Once—in another life—he would have flirted. Had those females on their backs for him. Fawning over him. Now—

He hurried to his designation.

The bath water was already steaming. Sansa, already undressing. She stilled, before him.

Reek violently trained his eyes to the stone. His body ached with more than one reminder of why this too—was a punishment for him.

To look upon Sansa's form—was Ramsey's cruel ploy to further his humiliation. As though rutting him into the pens until he lost control was not humiliation enough.

"M-My L-Lady…I have c-come to b-bathe you." Monotone. Unemotional words hung in the air.

Ramsey could be spying—Reek felt there were ears in the very walls themselves. Eyes too.

Tully eyes traveled from his face—to his breeches. She could probably scent him from clear across the room. "Theon? What…What did he do to you? Did you—" She froze. "Have you had an accident?"

Humiliation ebbed straight up his spine. When she came nearer—he lurched back. "Not T-Theon…M-My Lady. P-Please. I h-have to b-bathe you."

He could not bear for her to touch him. He did not seek to touch her—it was Ramsey's insistence that locked him here.

Sansa lowered her reaching hand. Stepped, soundlessly toward the wooden bathing tub. And sank beneath the water's surface.

A sigh of discontentment shuddered from her petals.

With precise movements, Reek forced his wrecked body to kneel. The pain was excruciating. Wincing, he grasped the rim of the tub to steady himself. When the tugging pain from both his lower back—and rear-end settled—He sighed in momentary easement.

Reek set to work, bathing her with the fine cloth of a rag. Taking care to brush every inch of her that Ramsey brutalized. And in his mind, wishing that he could be bathed. His repugnant odor made his stomach, constantly turn. Just the heat of the bath water against his hand, was a comfort. A relief, from the chill of the pen, he would succumb to, once finished here.

Once, he took these soaks for granted. Now—he wished he could just be granted one bath—and clean clothes to wear.

He ached—everywhere. He made little grunts, and groans—the longer he knelt, the chilled fabric of his ragged breeches causing him to shiver. He was so cold—so very cold—and the bath water, so warm.

So, tempting.

Sansa curled her fingers around his hand. "Theon—You are shaking like a leaf." Startled—he dropped the rag into the water.

He was—Shaking that is. He was chilled to the bone. Reek twitched; eyes closing. Made a low noise in the rear of his throat. Then reopened them. Struggling into a standing position. He retracted his hand, as though burned.

She was clean now. His punishment was at an end. He learned not to touch her. Never to sneak in here. Not to feel anything for her. Even her nose had turned up at his scent. He was a repulsive being, Ramsey made certain he was.

He learned specifically, not to love her—like Theon once did.

"You are clean. I m-must go M-My Lady—" And with that—Reek departed; his stench retreating with him.

Theon

Present

Theon felt the piercing darkness. It had enclosed around his heart. Extending its reach to every corner of his nervous system. It was not so easily forsaken.

His body would react to Sansa. His skin burns alight if she touched him—but his mind was still at war. Still unable to forget the sight of her. Huddled up alongside of Jon.

He felt the sting of that betrayal in his heart. In his soul. It would not dwindle. Despite her forgiveness; everything still felt hollowed out. Internally.

And nightmares, ensued.

Glimpses of a past, best forgotten, but unable to be.

Skin fraught with inflictions, all thanks to Ramsey, Theon would never be able to withstand rejection again. Sansa had pushed him from her life.

So easily. Because of Ramsey.

Which (if Theon knew Ramsey) he was smirking sadistically about from the worst of the seven hells.

Hands touched sweat-lathered skin. Pulsing beats rampantly increased Theon's heart—and sweet tones, entered his psyche.

"Theon…? Wake up? P-Please…"

Frantic—Theon clenched down on the furs, and jolted into consciousness. Tears wet his eyes. And he felt it. Wetness, on his thighs.

"Theon, speak to me. You were screaming in your sleep. Gods…I thought you would never wake…You were in agony—such agony…" Distress was potent in her tone. Thumbs brushed away beads of sweat from his cheeks.

Humiliated. Theon glanced down. He was in a puddle of urine. His urine.

Ramsey's voice entered his mind. Clear as day. 'Filthy, incontinent, hound!'

He swung his head in disbelief. Even now, he could still feel Ramsey's punishment. Clear as day. Ran his tongue over the jagged ridge of his molar. Remembered the touch of Sansa's warm skin as he knelt on the stone—in this very room—and bathed her supple, curves, and edges, in urine-drenched breeches.

Theon could only think of all the manners in which he was not worthy of Sansa. This delicate, Northern Lady. Swollen with child. Insistent she was broken by Ramsey, yet, so easily able to lay bare with Jon. To seek her half-brother's warm, whole flesh, after binding herself to Theon before the Gods.

She did not want him. She believed him weak—like Ramsey. Like all of Westeros.

This was his worst nightmare come true. He was soaked in his own accident, his wife, soothing him with words—touches.

Theon tugged up the furs. Shielded his shame from her.

"You had an accident…It is okay, Theon. I am not mad at you."

When she cooed at him like a child—for this—it was too much. Theon jerked clear from her touch. Inched away until he met firm, rough wall. And pushed his face into the stone. Drank in the potent reek in the air. It was one he was familiar with. So familiar it made him ill.

"I f-felt him. His h-hands were o-on me." He did not mean to speak. But he did.

Blubbering like a child. Shoulders wracked with sobs. He could not turn his face back to the stained sheets. Could not face his own humiliation. His nightmare.

Sansa—seeing him for what he was. Like she did, then.

Sansa hung back. Stood in quite contemplation. Listened to him babble. And he lowered to the stone. Felt the rough surface against his rear-end. He still ached there—from the dream. Memories of Ramsey's brutality. He still suffered it.

He always would.

"Shh—He can never hurt you again. I fed him to the hounds. He is gone. He is gone, now." Somehow, she wound her arms around him. And he faded into them.

"Your body did not tell you, that you needed to go." Were the next words spoken in soft hesitance into his ear.

Sometimes his body did not warn him before it relieved itself. It was rare—but it happened. As Reek—no one cared. As Theon—Sansa now laid beside him—and he would drench her, too.

"I r-relived it…" Hushed tones incurred. "The night I…I b-bathed you."

Soft fingers froze in his sandy hair.

"You were wet that night."

He went strictly rigid. Theon never told her the truth about that night. Too ashamed of the truth. "He r-raped me—It h-hurt so much Sansa…I c-could not help what happened." Theon descended into broken sobs, in her arms. "H-He made me w-wear them. Wet…freezing c-cold…And b-bathe you." Theon felt so small. So pathetic.

And not for the first time; unworthy of her.

"He was a monster. It was not your fault, Theon. None of it is your fault." Tears breeched her eyes. Theon felt her pity sink into him.

Along with the shame.

"I need to b-bathe…P-Please, Sansa...P-Please…" Just like with Ramsey—He pleaded. Broken psychologically, there was no reason to his child-like demeanor. But he felt so lost. And without her for so long—he felt abandoned.

"No one will ever prevent you from bathing again, Theon. Ever." She vowed.

Theon kept his eyes clenched tight. Let his mind shut down—and stopped listening.