Part 19; To Reclaim a Soul.

And so, we fell.

slow, hard fast.

and together.

Sansa

Theon changed.

It was as though a candle blew out—and light extinguished from his eyes.

Light. Love.

Like a white walker; Theon complied with her every wish.

Held her when darkness fell, kissed her at all the appropriate moments, bedded her each night.

But his movements were unfeeling. Calculated things. His words; monotone. Dead.

It was as though he were speaking to her; but he was not really present alongside of her. And she felt the ache of loss, worse than when she believed him gone for good.

The anger-induced words Theon shouted at her, that night, stuck in her mind. The defeat in his eyes—the deeply set wounds of betrayal.

She did that.

She hurt him.

Ramsey was their worst nightmare—and yet—Theon had been more traumatized by her interference in his decision-making process, than by the existence of Ramsey's spawn inside of her.

She had taken it upon herself to remove any pointy objects from Theon's immediate reach. Even at meals, she kept a close eye on him. Never leaving him with a knife of his own.

Sansa did not trust that he would not snap—especially now.

The hollowness in his eyes; the passive manner in which he acted—petrified her.

She felt as though she lost him; despite her constant attempts, to the contrary. He would not speak of that night. Pretended it never occurred—The accusations that parted his vocals. His blatant distrust of her loyalty to him. How could she ever convince him? Especially now?

Sometimes, he would sit—for hours on end. Stare into the fireplace. Watch the flames lick the air, furs bundled around him—and stare. No words. No explanation. He only budged when she asked him to—when she instructed him to.

She felt as though every movement only did further damage to Theon. She had broken his spirit; but never meant to. Never set out to. A month passed in this manner.

But she still could not forget what he spoke to her. What he accused her of. Because it was all true. He had been hurting—Was he still? She could no longer tell. And she had done it to him. Through Jon. She was at fault for all of this.

Expressly, Theon spoke of not wanting to be her husband. Above all else. She forced him to her bed, forced him into a marriage he did not want. Yet, he was loyal to her. He loved her. She could not wrap her head around the reasons why.

If he loved her—after she hurt him—had he loved Ramsey, too? The thought sickened her. But she could not penetrate the surface, any other way.

How could she fix a man that was so broken? Once, she believed it would be with their body warmth. Robb's method. Now—she did not even know if it could be done at all.

She felt like he was drowning—and no matter how often she threw out a rope—she could never quite guide it to him. There was never a tug in return.

Though she had him, the Gods had been ruthless enough to abscond with his mind. The single-most piece of him she revered above all others.

Hunched over the fire; Sansa watched him. Hands rested over her oversize belly. Ignoring the brutal kicks from the babe inside of her.

Theon was silent. Sea-green eyes trained on the crimson coloring. Fingers tightly clenched to the furs. Messy curls settled atop his head, and only a tunic on his form. He rarely dressed. He cared little to preserve his dignity from her—from the servants. Perhaps he felt he had none to preserve. She was just as troubled over that. Small of a detail as it was.

It meant he had given up.

Jon avoided her; busied himself with matters of the counsel. Wed himself to a Lady from Dorne. Perhaps the wedding was rushed, due to self-blame for Theon. She did not bother to ask. Jon only informed her of news that was of the utmost importance; which these days—were few, and far between.

"Theon?" Sansa called out.

His head turned. Eyes absently landed on her.

"Come here." She instructed. Theon came.

Rabbit-furs that were huddled around him, landed on the stone. Once, at her bedside, instinctively—wrecked fingers struggled to yank the tunic over his head. Letting it cascade to join the rabbit furs upon the stone.

"Do you have need of my body, My Lady?" Hollow. Empty words. She saw into his eyes. There was nothing there.

It made tears rim her own eyes. "N-No I did not ask you over here, for that. Put your tunic back on. Sit." He lifted the discarded fabric. Redressing; then settled at her bedside.

She missed the subtle, little things, he did before. Even as Reek—Theon would hold her hand. Touch her with love. Longing to feel something. Anything. Now, he made no effort to reach for her. Only stared.

" T-Theon…Do you love me?" Worming her fingers into silky fabric of her nightdress. Her eyes searched his.

"Of course. You are my wife." Monotone. Unfeeling.

Her heart cinched.

She reached for his hand. Gripped it in her own. Lifting it to her lips. She kissed it, delicately. Sniffling.

"Do you remember the last time we saw each other? Before I left for King's Landing? Do you remember, the last thing you said to me, as you saw me off?" Her thumb brushed the slight bump on his index finger's knuckle. Where the bone had cracked under pressure. The digit was slanted—askew—but still flexed.

Theon was silent.

"I remember everything." Was all he would say.

And she blinked, a few tears trekked down her cheeks. "You told me, that I was comely—elegant—that no other girl stood a chance, to clutch a man's affections. That I was a bride well-suited to a royal prick of a prince like Joffrey. Remember?"

"Yes."

She fidgeted with his hand. "I thought then, you were jealous. That you were lashing out, because I was going away, and you were staying put." Sansa peered back on the memory. Closed her eyes, summoning it. Her long strands of hair; ocean eyes that shifted up to look Theon in the eyes when he spoke those words. Reopening her eyes. Sansa took in the warmth of his hand, the calloused feel of him.

"You were jealous, though. Just not for the reasons I thought, weren't you? You were jealous, because you honestly believed that you never would have been enough for me. You believed; I could not love. That I was incapable of it. I only wanted a husband as shallow as I was." She relinquished her hold on his hand. Let her skin tingle from the loss of it.

He twitched, but said nothing.

"Despite what you may believe, I love you, Theon. I love you, with everything I have. And maybe…maybe all I have left inside is not enough to counteract Ramsey's damage to you. Or remedy the fact that you were my family's prisoner for years, before Ramsey ever laid a finger on you. But I just wish it were enough, to convince you that what I did—to you—I thought was best. That I did it for you. For love." Sniffling, she released a breath.

"But I liberated you, Theon. You are not my prisoner here. And I hate to think that when you come to bed with me, you do so, only because I bid you to. Not because you hold desire for me. I fear, you have grown to resent me, Theon. But your word is all you have left. So, you stay. This is not love I feel from you, Theon. It is defeat." The more she spoke, the worse she felt. She knew—what needed to be done. And this time; She would let it happen.

"Do you wish to leave here, Theon? Is it…Has it truly become so painful, that you want to die?"

His eyes glanced up. For the first time, she saw—something—shimmering behind the façade of nothing. A flicker in his eye.

"I am giving you a choice, Theon. If it hurts that badly. I do not want you to suffer, anymore. I want you to live, Theon. But I want you to be present. With me, as you do. And—And even if you cannot be with me, then I wish for you to find the happiness you want from the world. Wherever that is." She was choking on her own tears. This hurt.

If he walked away—If he left. She had no one.

"Theon." She turned his face to hers. Cupped his cheeks, with tenderness. "Speak to me. Please? I miss your voice. I want you to feel again, Husband. I want you to really—feel—again. But if you cannot—if it is not possible. Then I will give you the blade. I will give you, whatever you desire to end this life. And I will join you in the next. Where you will be whole again." Her thumbs stroked over the stubble of his jaw. Listening—waiting for him to speak. To react—anything.

Theon

Everything he saw. Every flicker—Every moment. Was hollow. Empty. Theon's skin no longer crawled. Nor did it pierce with agony—He felt nothing.

Body. Mind. Soul.

It was like wavering. Weaving through vines, all the while, knowing the stab of pain was not far behind. So, Theon kept moving.

Inside, the numb sensation was enough to sate him. And detach from this place. His body. His life.

All the things he could not cope with.

His indefinite love for Sansa, one of those things.

How could he love a woman that hurt him so deeply? He questioned himself, internally. Over and over again. The conclusion was always the same.

He was destined to be broken. And broken things, attracted other broken things.

Somewhere—through the tangle of vines—he felt the alluring pull of a sweet voice. Calling to him. Pleading to him. The voice wanted him to return.

Needed him to stop running. The inevitable chase—needed to end.

And it did.

Finally.

Substantial aches returned to his body. Muscles eased under skin, tensing with discomfort. Light returned to leaf-green eyes. The all-consuming darkness gave way to the burning light.

Theon let his eyes fall closed. His skin pinken underneath the drag of soft-touches. Her words brought him back. The memory from the past. His jealousy over Joffrey. Hatred for Ramsey.

Everything—returned to him.

She would give up her own life to make him whole? The thought stabbed him. He could not see, Sansa, follow him into oblivion. He would not.

Wet streaks stained her porcelain skin. Snot ran down her upper-lip. Theon tilted his head toward hers. Stole a simple kiss from rosy-petals.

Soft, timid movements returned the kiss.

Patters rose in his heart, and he sighed.

"What has become of us, Sansa?" Theon cooed in a low, tone. His thumb swiping tears left, and right.

"T-Theon?" The last time he heard that tremor resound in her voice—he was gone for a month. Fear shook him.

"How long this time? How long was I lost?" He inquired. Grazed a thumb over her cheek.

"T-Too long. I thought you were gone for good, this time. Theon. I thought you would never come back." Those words rattled him to his core.

I want…I want to feel like your husband. To be your husband." Theon admitted.

"How would I do that? How would I make you feel that?" Earnest eyes inspected his.

"I wish to be free, Sansa. I do not wish to live without rights to my own wife. And to be separate from you—and your baby." He was careful not to claim the child. Far too afraid to.

"I just…I want to have you, and my freedom." Right in this moment—he felt caged.

Confined to bedchambers. Cut off from the few things he retained from his home. From Yara. His sword—his armor. His blade.

"You are not my prisoner, Theon." She spoke with such conviction—just like Ned used to, when he attempted to convince him that staying out of his homeland; was best. Attempted to console him, about all the things he missed.

"Jon took away my sword…" Eyes became avoidant—Theon knew why it had been done.

"I was fearful. You were unwell, Theon. I…You are still, unwell. And I fear you always will be, unwell." He watched her teeth sink within her bottom lip.

Theon bowed his head. "What am I, without the ability to protect my wife? Myself? I am still an Iron-born, man. Do you know what that means? Truly?"

He saw her eyebrows knit together. "I suspect you shall tell me?"

"Iron-born men are supposed to be strong. Warriors. I have never been that for you, Sansa. You spend most of your time, worrying for me. Caring for me in your own way."

Theon tilted her chin, upward. And kissed long, and deep. How could he make her understand it? How useless he appeared—at all times. Sansa returned the kiss, hungry for the attention he bestowed.

"I care for you the same, as I have since I first met you." Sansa persisted.

Growling in aggravation, Theon bunched up her nightdress. Spread her open—pressed his stub to her lower-pleats. Hindered in part by the bulk of her belly—Theon hovered over his prize.

"I want to feel like a man again. I want to feel like an Iron-born." He circumvented.

"You are an Iron-Born. You are a man. And you are my husband." Sansa's tone, tinged with playfulness. Something he had not heard from her—Not perhaps, since their days amidst the fields. In flight—during chasing games.

Theon felt strong. Stronger—and clear-minded. Weeks of disillusionment had brought a few ounces of life back within him. Rejuvenated his spirit.

Rough fingers found her pleasure nub, just at the top of her apex. Pressed on the swollen nub. She jolted—and gasped. "T-Theon…"

"Tell me, Wife. How long has it been since I have ravaged you? Hm?" Theon devoured each minute whine from Sansa's throat. Bodice already reacting in full to his touch. Pink-nipples poked hard, through the thin gown. Three fingers thrust—without warning—deep-up inside her, sopping entrance. She moaned out like a bitch in heat.

"Too long? Has it not?" Theon wasted no time in pumping his fingers. "You know, I used to play with the pregnant whores sometimes. They would charge me half, cause they liked to be touched. Something about being swollen with child, makes a woman hungry for it."

She made unintelligible sounds of need. Followed by his name.

For an instant—he forgot. Forgot what he no longer had. And focused on how much he desired his wife. His fingers stilled; thumb too.

Her sounds were almost animal.

"Give me back my things, and I will sate you." Theon played dirty.

She quivered.

"F-Fine—Just…P-Please—"

Sansa squealed as he returned to his ministrations all at once.

"See? That was not so difficult…was it?"

Theon pumped her—lowered his head. And began to lap at her. Those fists tangled In his curls.

Tonight, would be long—and he was only just getting started.