Part 26; To Depart Reality.

Life's not fair;

Why should it be?

Theon

Nightmares overcame the endless darkness that encompassed his general slumber. Ramsay was ever-present.

Cruel. Unpleasant words, abundantly resounded throughout the dungeon. His flesh was on fire—the blade, searing-hot as it scooped flesh from muscle.

Those taunts would remain within the structure of his mind for as long as he lived.

Perhaps even into the seven hells he felt destined to wind up in.

It was cold—firm—touch.

That jolted him into awareness.

"You sure about this Alise?" Drunken male tones soured the air.

"Oh, it is him alright—I recognize him." Feminine tones blended in with male ones.

Woozily, Theon forced his eyes open. Double figures were all he could make out in the dimly lit quarters. A single candle was lit on the edge of the wooden-table. His head pounded—as though melded with a thousand pummels to it.

He could not recall a time when he was ever this unsteady—perhaps when Ramsay had him up on that saltire.

Hands still kept him held firm to the lumpy mattress. Confounded, tired-fingers sought a way to relieve the pressure on his back. With a low grunt, he gripped at the sheets. Attempted to drag himself forward.

"The little prick is waking up." He heard a second distinctive male voice.

"It might be wearing off. Though, I gave him enough milk of the poppy to fell a horse."

Theon's uncentered mind, recalled the wine. He had not been watching closely when she poured the glasses. She had drugged him? Why?

Slowly, he mulled over the reasons. Did he know her?

The longer he attempted to make out what—exactly—was happening, the harder his head ached.

Pounding with the stupor of dizziness. His stomach felt ill—like a lump was dredged into it.

"What are you…doing…?" Theon strained. Struggled to speak the words.

They came out funny. Sounded uneven—unformed—upon his tongue.

"You Iron-Island filth. You should not have come here." The voice was near. Most assuredly from the man holding him firmly in place.

Struggling—Theon's slow mind attempted to process what had been taunted down at him.

They knew who he was.

His skin crawled.

"I…had nowhere…else to…go…" He forced his eyes open. Attempted to focus green-optics on the female. "W-Why did you…hmm…drug me…I p-paid you…"

He could feel his other personalities, hovering near the edge of his mind. They were confused. Scared. He was meant to protect them.

How could he? He could not even protect himself.

"You think one measly coin is enough to repay me for what you took?" Spiteful words spit through the air.

He heard another voice. Also, male. "Shh, Alise we will see that justice is done, hmm? Why do you not go outside? Clear your head?"

It was a strain to keep his eyes open so long. He closed them—and groaned. But listened, nonetheless.

"No. I want to watch. I want to watch this fucking bastard bleed!"

Theon's brain screamed at him—he had to get out of here. But how?

He was so weak. So very weak. And tired.

So tired.

If he closed his eyes—maybe he would die quickly.

"Go…ahead…kill me…get it over with…" Resolved to his fate, Theon let the words slur right out.

He was so relaxed from the milk of the poppy. It worked wonders on his ambitions. His cares. His skin felt tingly. The aches and pains—departed. How much had she given him?

Laughter burst throughout the small room. His ears rang—head ached woozily, as the sound amplified in his altered state.

"We are not going to kill you. You fucking cunt. But when we are done with you—you will wish we did." The man that still had a sturdy grasp upon his tunic, bent down. He could smell the stale tang of ale on his breath.

Tears stung the rims of his eyes. If they only knew—How often he already prayed for death…

Squeals of terror, befell his lips as he was suddenly jerked back. Tunic torn over his head. Breeches abrasively yanked down bony-hips. Smallclothes next.

The rough-textured hand kept him tight to the mattress, whilst another snaked around. Grazed over his scarred-bits. "I did not believe it until this moment. You really have no cock?" The foul-breathed male sneered.

Tears trickled—red color seared throughout his face. Brazenly, displayed his shame. Theon jolted his hips, away from this man's vile touch.

"If you had one, I would have cut it off myself, shame someone already beat me to it." Theon trembled.

He wanted to fight. But his only weapon was his dagger—and it was in his rucksack. Which was clear across the room.

"P-Please…" He resorted to pleading. "Whatever I have done to you…I apologize…just please…Let me go…" Howling laughter echoed through the close-quarters of the small room. It was stifling with heat—sweat built on his skin. Perhaps—it was the tincture.

"What you did, was murder, rape, and reeve through our land. You filth. You let your men rape as they would. Killed my brother—No. You cock-less bastard are going to rot. And I will revel in every second of your suffering."

Theon shivered.

"Please…" His voice was small.

He felt so lost. So afraid.

Why did he leave the warmth of Winterfell? Why did he leave Sansa?

There was no time for more pleading. He was pinned—hard—into the mattress, felt the shift—and panicked.

Scratched. Scraped. Scrabbled. Tried desperately for a foothold on something—anything that might help him. But there was nothing. Only bedsheets.

Screams tore from his throat as he felt the first jab inside of him—from behind. He tore around the man's cock—felt hurt jostle right through the pain suppressant, that impaired him. And he pushed into the contents of his mind—and escaped.

Reek was shoved forward. Into consciousness.

Pain ruptured through his form. Images of Ramsay piled on top of him. Held tight to him in the hound pens. Fingers gripped tight to his collar—choking him with it. Reek was in pain.

So much pain.

Blood was seeping down his rear—soaking into the sheets. It hurt—why was he here? Why was this happening again? Where was Sansa? Sansa promised to keep him safe.

Safe…He wanted to be held.

Reek wailed in agony—felt his bladder release. Eyes rolled back—as he reeled with the sting of these rough thrusts—touches. The acidic-stench of urine, seeped into the room.

"Look at that! The bastard's pissed himself!" Laughter radiated. So loud—why was everything so loud? His mind hurt. He was being ripped in half…Was this how it ended? Was he going to die here?

He wanted to die. Please…let him die.

Did he upset Sansa? Had she sent him away? The last thing he could remember was her warm arms. Their clean skin. Loving—tender—whispers into his ears. That she loved him.

"S-Sansa…." Painful shrieks tore from his throat. He wailed for her. She promised—promised he would never be hurt again. Not like this.

"You crying for your wife, you cock-less whore? She shames herself by being tethered to the likes of you, scum!" Unfamiliar male voices were abundant. How many?

He could not decipher.

There was so much hurt—it went on and on.

He was bloody. Ripped. And he wanted his hound pen.

He wanted to curl up in the hay-strands. Where he felt safe. The only place he was safe.

It was not Ramsay's voice he deciphered—only foreign, unfamiliar ones.

Had he been a bad servant? He laid with Lady Sansa. Was this punishment because of what he did with her?

He loved her. He swore he did. She was shamed by the likes of him. He was wretched—so wretched.

"I w-will n-not….t-touch….h-her…a-again…p-please…R-Reek w-will be g-good…" Ramsay used to like it when he remembered his name. Promised things. But he forgot how much Ramsay despised that word. Please. Such a simple word—such a mistake…

More cruel laughter.

"Is that a name you go by? Reek? Fitting for a creature that pisses himself." Vile words stung him deep inside.

Reek sobbed. Fought with all the strength he had. But he harbored so little strength. His muscles felt heavy. Weak.

He laid his head down. And let them take.

He could not fight—Ramsay had always hated it when he fought.

What did he do? No one would tell him what he had done.

It continued—for what felt like hours. Was it days? Years?

He laid—limp—aching. The first man sprayed him with seed. All down his back, shoulders, hair. Another picked up where he left off. Perhaps there was three—four others that came. Took. Spent their seed inside of him—on top of him. He could not tell.

He laid there—in humiliation. In shame.

This was where he belonged. He was the lowest of the low. His other personalities were hiding. From this shame.

He was built for this. Made for it, really.

Sansa had just been a dream. A blissful, beautiful—dream. She could not love him. He remembered how she despised him for what Theon did. The hate in those Stark-eyes. Had she given him to these monsters?

Trickles of tears rolled silently down his cheeks. He made little noises—in his throat—the only proof that he still lived. Breathed. Existed.

He felt fists pound down on his flesh. Beat the tortured surface of rough-skin. He heard their voices. They were far away.

They taunted him. Belittled him. Shamed him.

He wanted to let go. But his body was not near enough to death. He was not dying.

Mercy never came.

He would do well to remember that.

Mercy did not exist.

Not for Reek. Never Reek.

Unresponsive. The men were displeased with him. His noises had ceased—his fight was gone—Why fight it?

Covered in blood, urine, seed—no bruises.

What use did pleading do? Fighting? He knew his place—he was reminded of it. The dream was gone—dead—and no one would save him now.

Still—Reek called to her. Little, broken—cracked—words.

"Sansa…" Inaudible. Were they even parting his cracked-lips at all?

He felt ashamed. He nursed at her breast—like a babe—took from her lovely-skin. Now—he was paying for that crime. He was nothing—and he forgot that.

Low cries wrenched from his throat. He felt a knife dig into his skin.

Is this his release? His death?

No.

They carved into his back. He felt his flesh tear. Bleed. But the wound was not deep—not nearly enough to release him.

"Hold him down."

A voice loud enough to pierce his stupor. Hands rolled him. Boneless—he tumbled upon his back.

Ignored the sting from his ass. Closed his eyes against the backdrop of blurriness. Then—screams tore from his throat.

Flesh, burned—singed—smoked.

His chest was on fire! High-pitched squeals ripped from somewhere inside of him. How he found the strength to even scream—he knew not.

Blissfully—darkness consumed him.

Everything went black.

Sansa

Dreams of fire. Pain—tears. Haunted her sleep. Sansa could feel the nestle of warm arms around her. The pleas—cries of her name.

"S-Sansa…H-Help…H-Help…P-Please…S-Sansa…" Shivers spiraled up her spine. Radiated right into her core. Reek was clung on for dear life.

He was cold—and scared. Tired. So tired.

She could feel the haze of clouds all around them. Thick like fog. It was difficult to think—to breathe. Everything hurt.

She could feel the hurt.

Like when Ramsey would torture her. Her heart gripped.

"You are safe Reek. I promise. You are safe with me." Whispers fell. Wind wicked across the surface. Blew snow every which way around them.

"S-Sansa…P-Please…" Still, he pleaded.

She felt her heart wrench for him. Why was he so afraid?

Her skin tingled—goosebumps spread—everywhere.

And then—she jerked into consciousness.

Sick dread lodged in her belly. Theon had not returned. He was not upon the sette in their chambers. Nor alongside her. Where he belonged.

She threw off the furs, reached for her cloak—and rushed out of her chambers. Down the halls—to his.

Still vacant—empty.

Fretfully, she surged to the hound pens. Searched each one—still not there, either.

The sick—pained—feeling would not cease.

She fled to Jon's chambers. Burst in—unannounced. He jolted awake. Ghost's head popped up.

His wife sleepily shifted in bed—undisturbed by the intrusion.

By now, thick tears were pouring down Sansa's cheeks. She had to find Theon. She had to.

Across the room, she drew up onto the bed, flung herself into Jon's arms. Buried her face into his neck. She craved his strength, right now.

Needed it.

"Sansa…What has happened?" Fingers wound into scarlet-tresses.

"I cannot find, Theon!" No attempt to quiet her vocals was made.

Silken-fur nudged her thigh. Ghost's nose pressed sound against her. Worried expressions lit his eyes.

"I am certain he is nearby, probably in the pens. Have you had a row again?" Even tones resounded.

"We had a row…Yesterday…I thought he was avoiding me, but…He is not here. I cannot find him, anywhere! And I…I heard him in my dreams. He was calling out for me. He was scared—everything was…blurry…hazy…Jon, please! You have to find him…Now! Right now! He is hurt—I know it…" Frantically—she recollected the vicious pain inflicted. She still felt it—even in her waking state.

"It is not even dawn yet, are you certain he has not just wandered off for a bit of air? Maybe took a walk? You have probably just had a night terror…Would it make you feel better to sleep here?"

"Listen! To! Me—!" She heavily, enunciated each word. "—This was not just a fucking dream! He is going to die! You have to do something! Send our men out to look for him! Send Ghost! DO SOMETHING!" Undeterred—she grasped his nightgown. Shook him with the bulk of her strength. She cared not if she woke his pregnant—sleeping—wife. Nor If she had to kill him in order to get him to listen to her. It was a rarity when she swore—but she wanted his attention—and by the Gods—she would fucking get it.

Wide, gaping-eyes found hers. Sansa had never been so frantic—so unsettled. In her life.

"If you feel that strongly—"

"I do! There is no more time to waste! Go now! Or so help me! I will never forgive you!" Clearly agitated, Jon emerged from underneath the warmth of his bed-furs, Ghost on his heels.

Tully-blue eyes observed—unseeingly—as Jon tugged on his attire. Her fingers were clenched into balled fists. The more time wasted—the worse she felt.

Sinking—repulsion, remained—lodged in her belly. Turning with unease.

"I will gather a few of our knights. Send them to the outlying villages. I swear to the Gods, if he is sleeping—or walking somewhere, you shall be the one that explains why I woke them for this."

She would readily take blame for her own wrongness—were she wrong. But the sick feeling was lodged inside of her—and it refused to dwindle.

She was not wrong.

She could not be.

Reek

Boneless—Reek felt saturation on his belly.

Heat—warmth of a room. He groaned.

Then arms. Around him. Laughter—so much laughter.

Carried—pain seared throughout his form. Everything hurt.

Everywhere.

Then—frigid cold.

Dropped to the Earth—He shivered. Naked. Freezing—Unconsciousness claimed him again.

This time—He prayed it was for good.