Part 18; To Fight Iron with Wolf.

I bared my soul for love.

My mistake.

Theon

Droplets of water cascaded down into the wooden tub. Surface ripples caught the attention of emerald-green eyes. Tremors proceeded just underneath the waves. To cope; meant to ignite a collision course.

With Sansa—with his own truths.

Coping—was impossible.

Theon closed his eyes, and could still see Sansa—his Sansa—tucked into her brother's arms. He could still imagine himself, replaced by another man. There was no innocence—no partition from their vows, and her deep, wounding, betrayal.

Theon could not separate them in his mind. Despite how desperately he attempted to.

Sansa would touch him. Slide soft fingers over him—and he would still feel unworthy.

Like a burden. She had wanted him to leave, her. She said so, herself.

Never once, had Theon even thought of fleeing from Sansa. Each time he was sent away, it chipped another piece of his heart away. Being absent from her side, scored his heart with corresponding wounds, to the ones already there from Ramsey.

That the woman he loved—his wife—could even fathom, sending him on errands in the hopes that he might disappear altogether, deeply hurt him. Not just as a man; but as her husband.

Theon might have only bedded her (as a husband in title) on their wedding night, but he thought it spread broader than that. Even, dared to believe the enfold of his physique, was all she required. After all, she beseeched it from him, all those months ago. Under the guise that he alone could offer solace—and she would return the sentiment back unto him. Humans—Even broken ones—Sought touch, sometimes.

But—her words were falsities.

She could find comfort in Jon's arms, just as well.

Jon had his scars, but he was not broken. Eventually, might he have offered her more than just his arms? More than innocent skin to skin contact?

These same thoughts paralyzed him. Pained him, well beyond explanation.

Ramsey used to toy with him. Rape him into the filth, all-the-while, equally raping his mind. Tearing every ounce of hope—light—from view. Until, he was trained to find the catch in every kindness. Every too-good-to-be-true, sort of thing.

And she was too good for him. That horror-stricken night, days before they fled, Winterfell—proved it.

"Theon?" Waves of her vocals drowned out the all-consuming, ellipsis of his thoughts.

How long had he been soaking in the bathwater? Skin burning from the heat; muscles aching from the touch-memory of his nightmare? He had not moved a muscle, since dipping beneath the surface.

He jolted.

Seeking out her eyes; with tired-inflicted ones of his own. Theon made a noise in his throat. He wanted to do as she pleased. To come back to her—but he did not know, precisely, how.

Bitterness, sank underneath the paleness of his skin. The thought that Jon could have taken his place in her bed, would forever sully his self-worth in this life.

"W-What?" Hollowly, Theon spoke up.

Sansa gripped tight to the soft, dampened, cloth. White, fingers rung out the water with careful, gentility. Theon perceived the first caress upon his breast—and rippled with shock. Theon's own hands were used to bathing him, now.

Without her stroke to comfort him for two moons, whilst Ramsey's bastard developed inside of her, Theon had scrubbed his own skin. Caressed himself, until the shame set in. Tingled with want. As he did now. And he wanted it to stop.

The wanton throbbing.

Her breasts grew twice their natural size in the short window of time, since he had viewed her, last. And his touch-hungry body could not properly take her in—especially naked as she is—without feeling something.

The sheets had been stripped from their sleeping place; and the servants had suppressed their giggles, but not their knowing, smiles. It was worse than being under Ramsey's care. Worse—because he felt powerless, alongside the woman he gave his heart, too—His soul for safe-keeping.

Sansa did not trust him. Not his body, or his mind. So, how could this work? Could it ever?

He wished he had succeeded in his intentions. Now, she made her intentions clear to scarcely depart from his side. And she had, Jon—of all people—take his sword away. Afraid he might attempt a second time.

He felt more a prisoner in this place, than ever. Just underneath a new thumb.

Yet, still—despite her distrust—Theon loved her.

"You have not moved, Husband. However, did you expect to become clean?" Chiding, light tones flowed from her lips.

He did not answer. Had nothing to say.

It was his only form of rebellion—his only sense of freedom left. The freedom to not speak at all.

He set his jaw, and stared ahead.

Let her clean the sweat, grime, filth—from his form. Until she ran the cloth over his stub.

He jerked, in response. And slid back, until he met the wooden rim. The wood felt wounding against his back. And he flinched in pain. Making a low noise.

Sansa's eyebrows drew together. "I am sorry, Theon. I did not mean—"

"Please, Sansa…I cannot." He remembered the first time he said those words. How she removed his clothes, made him succumb. And effectively guided him, underneath the rabbit-furs. Into warm, sin.

She lowered her gaze. Evidently, wounded. But she retracted her hand, all the same.

He released the breath he held in his lungs. They had been burning.

"I will…leave you to finish…" Sansa lowered the rag, back underneath the water. Dried her hands on a towel, and stood. Theon felt his heart ache with regret. Pain.

What was right? What was wrong? He knew not.

There was no one to guide him through this unfamiliar territory. Caught between a husband—and Sansa's burden. Would it be better, if he had gone? Left her alone?

Would Jon have taken better care of her, than he?

"Do you even want me, anymore, Sansa?" Rutting in the pens hardly counted. It had been months for them both. Lust had taken root. Words had been cut off. Skin had craved physical release. There was no loving emotion like their previous entanglements—just need. Just sincere, need. And that made him feel like an animal. The heedless, hound Ramsey always insisted he was.

Sansa spun back. To face him. A single palm, instinctively, rested on the bulge of her stomach.

"Of course, I do." Sansa gave an even-toned response. Perhaps unwilling—unable—to see the true destruction he felt.

"Then how could you let Jon, into our bed?" Theon's lower-lip trembled. There—He said it. "Y-You let Jon, send me away. You left me all alone...When all I ever did was offer to be a father to your baby…I only ever loved you, S-Sansa…I t-told you I was not h-husband material, but you insisted I marry you, knowing you would abandon me, less than a day after…Why, Sansa? Why would you d-do that? Why if you w-wanted me—if you w-want me would you d-do t-that?" He kept it all inside; until this moment.

It was all bundled in. Burdening his persecuted form, until he almost came apart. He wanted to rip his soul apart. He wanted to take away the stitches that somehow laced him together, so that he could no longer feel. So that, her betrayal would never hurt him again.

He willed himself to not have to feel it.

His skin prickled with bumps. But still—He felt it all.

"I thought you could not handle it. I cannot handle it! Carrying this monster inside of me, makes me so ill, Theon! So very ill! I am afraid. But not of marrying you! I only wanted to give you the option to go! Leave if you so desired to!"

"I only wanted you, Sansa! I only wanted my wife! I cried for you! I hated myself for whatever I had done to cause you to send me away! Not to love me anymore! You told me that you could only feel things with me. That you felt safest at my side…and then you cast me out! Like I was nothing. I am nothing. And I tried to tell you! I tried since you made me, come to bed with you! I tried! But you would not listen! You never listened! You told me, no one would ever hurt me again…You hurt me, Sansa! I am hurting! And you did this to me!" Something snapped. Broke apart. The flowing truths came from inside of him, and refused to cease. He felt as though he were distantly, viewing his own, withered, repulsively-maimed body from the outside. Screaming these things—and seeing the truth of why no female could ever really love him, from Ramsey's eye-view. From the castle maid's perspective. From everyone else's perspective.

What was left of him to love? What worth did he have left?

Without his sword—his armor—he could no longer defend himself, let alone her. And without his freedom—He was a prisoner. Worst of all, Theon was weak. Malnourished. With bones protruding from every angle—and a body that ached with every movement. Even speech hurt. His head throbbed, fingernails broke beneath the quick from malnutrition, skin chaffed everywhere clothing touched, from years of being unwashed, properly. And everywhere Ramsey broke him—he still suffered the weight of it all.

Yet—Sansa had been his light in the pitiless darkness, Ramsey thrived in. A reason to live. A reason to put on that armor, and sword. To keep going on. Until—even she forgot why she taken him as a husband. Forgot every promise she ever gave him. Until, he became indiscernible to a burden for her.

Her skin paled; chest heaved—and she shook with the force of her sobs. "T-That is what you t-think of me, Theon? You think me so u-unfeeling? I-It broke me to be w-without you! I did not desire to see you, break again—To watch you recede through the years of raising this child!"

Theon lowered his gaze. He could not see past, Jon. Perfect, able-bodied, Jon. With only a few scars on his skin. With his parts intact. His arms wide open to his only, surviving sister.

"And if I left…If I never came back…Would you have given yourself to, Jon?" Theon felt weak. Tired.

Sansa sniffled, rubbed the back of her hand against her nose.

"D-Do you honestly, think so little of me?"

"That is not a, No." Coldness, laced his tone.

"Of course, not!" Defensively, Sansa scoffed.

"Not even when you were lonely? Years from now? When you would ache to be touched? And tire of your own hand to garner pleasure from? Not even then?"

"What do you want me to say, Theon?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I have already told you; Jon only did what he did for my comfort. S-So I could sleep…So that I would not—" Her eyes downcast.

"What? Would not, what?"

Her head turned up; eyes trained upon his. "So that I would not die in childbirth. I could not eat, because I felt such guilt for what I put you through. I wanted to die, when I thought you might be dead, already, last morning. I would have died, knowing I killed you, Theon. I put you in the ground."

Sudden guilt, hit Theon. But it was not for the reason it should have been. But for the sudden realization that he was out of line. Theon was beneath—everyone. Sansa included.

Speaking out against her. Expressing his wounds—Why should she care to hear them? Ramsey taught him his place in the world. It was not to complain. He should be grateful for scraps. For pittance. And a wife, at all.

Wringing his hands. Theon stood. Departed the cooling water's surface. Ebbed toward Sansa, drew her into his embrace. Swords were a privilege. To be taken away. Love was also a privilege. Also, to be stripped away upon another's whims. Sansa was his 'Lady' and so often he told her he was not a Lord.

He certainly—was not.

Theon wiped away her tears. "I told you once, if ever you need to seek out another, I would step aside. I should not have blamed you."

She did not speak.

"Come to bed. I will not speak of it again." All tears were gone from his cheeks. All emotion from his voice. Finally—Theon succeeded in shutting it down. If she did not want him to feel. He would no longer feel. He would be hers. To toss aside at will; to be a husband—a lover—when necessary. But his heart was obliterated. His loyalty, remained.

Without another word; they nestled in bed together. And neither spoke, until sleep overtook them. Both of them.