Part 27; To Overcome and Endure.

When you pass through the

waters, I will be with you.

Reek

Flesh shivered. Blue-tinged lips parted. Drool escaped. Cold wisps of air fell from his pitiful form.

This is death.

He could not feel the cold.

Not anymore.

He could not feel pain—only light.

Light…

Then—warmth.

Arms. He was tired. Still so tired.

And if they were going to kill him—might he first know a bit of warmth?

He nuzzled into the arms that held him.

Sought to leech the heat from their bones.

Blurriness hazed his vision—eyes would not focus.

Unperturbed with whom might give him the final blow towards death—Reek descended back into blackness.

Sansa

Gut-wrenching—sears of pain refused to subside. Blue-optics fretfully gazed into flickering-flames. The more she attempted to recall—the worse the pain became.

Still, barely sounded pleas continued to rattle her to her core.

Those cries—were so delicate.

Frightened.

She could still see those bulged, tearful eyes. Like a child—calling for his mother.

It rocked her to her core. Deep—within her soul.

Clutched. Tight to Little Robb, Sansa had fed him—to calm herself.

Was that an hour ago? Two?

She could not recollect that either—but holding this wrapped bundle. Safe. Sound. In her arms, made her feel better, somehow. Lighter.

He was the only thing that helped.

Even sound asleep, with little lung-fulls of air sucked in. He was still so agreeable. Perfect.

Finally, after so long—She decided it was time to return him to his crib.

Like a ghost—she departed from within her chambers. Returned Little Robb to the nursery.

Tucked safe-within his crib, Sansa drew her robe tight around her middle. Wiped, woeful-tears from tired-eyes.

They fell, unabated. Constant. Since first she woke.

Worry, did not begin to cast a light upon how she felt.

Suddenly, commotion was prominent in the hall. Realizing—she was stood, still, like a statue in the hallway, gave Sansa pause.

She had meant to retreat, back to her chambers.

So why had she not?

Instead, she followed the ruckus. All the way out, into the courtyard.

Both hands shot straight to her mouth. Skin crawled. Theon was encompassed in a cloak, face swollen-past recognition. Hung-limp in Jon's arms.

Was he dead?!

Her first thought was that he could not possibly be alive.

No creature could survive such brutality.

Then, his head twitched—bobbed—before it fell back against Jon's chest.

Chills shuttered up her spine—Horror.

She shoved through the ever-expanding crowd of onlookers, forced them aside, until she could reach Theon.

"W-What h-happened to—" Sansa cut herself off; reached for his face—then decided against touching his swollen, painful-looking, features—Had to staunch back bile. "—Where did you find him?"

Jon's eyes were unreadable. Stoic nearly. Perhaps detached.

"Snowbank. Next to a brothel." His words were clipped. Concise.

"Who did this to him?" Stood out in the frigid cold—she did not think.

"As far as I can tell, that lot." He motioned with his head, to a band of prisoners. Hands bound. Winterfell soldiers on either side, guided them onward. Bulky men—twice Theon's size.

"W-Why?" Her stomach clenched.

"I know not, why men commit vile, unspeakable acts. I did not presume to ask them why. But we need to get him inside—before he freezes to death." As though he heard them—Theon shuddered. Nestling deeper into Jon's arms. Though made no sound to indicate, cognizance.

With a sob, Sansa nodded. Followed, quick alongside of Jon. Neither of them halted again, until Theon was safe, in the sanctuary of their bedchamber.

Jon stood—awkwardly. Holding Theon in his embrace.

"I do not think we should put him on the bed…His odor is quite repugnant."

Sansa spun on him. "Put him on the bed. He needs comfort right now. Nothing less, will do." Furiously, she drew back to the covers, and motioned for Jon to situate him.

With a sigh of discontentment, Jon complied. Unceremoniously lying him upon the bedsheets.

"Now, leave us in peace. Go handle the men that did this to him." Emboldened by her sudden hatred for the wretched filth that hurt, Theon—Sansa had no patience for Jon.

"I warn you, Sansa…His appearance does not bode well, under that cloak. Are you certain you wish to contend with him on your own…I could have the servants—"

"He is my husband! I will tend to him on my own. He will want no one else to touch him. Now, go!" She snapped. Her eyes overfilled with tears; she did not want to spill in front of Jon.

Jon left—without further complaint.

Left alone, a hollow echo resounded off the walls. To know that she had felt his pain—was enough to tell her just how atrocious it had been. His terror had been so resolute—he had cried for her.

And she heard him.

Felt him.

Thickly, Sansa swallowed.

"I am here now…You are going to be okay…" Sansa recognized patches of sandy-curls had been cut, crudely from Theon's head. Large chunks, hacked out. Whilst other bits were untouched. As though they cut his hair with the intent to humiliate. Her fingers dragged, mournfully, through his remaining curls. A few more tears slid down her cheeks.

Black and blue bruises littered his cheeks. Forehead. Nose—Everywhere.

Not an inch of his face was untouched by maim.

Finally—resolutely—Sansa peeled back Jon's cloak. Swallowing down her bile as she saw what had been done to him.

Dried semen coated his skin, some even matted his hair. So much of it—The stench of urine was everywhere—Realization came that was not just his own accident that he reeked of. Had they pissed on him?

His skin was frigid cold to the touch—blue in tint. He shivered with the exposure. "Shh…I know, Sweetheart. I know. I need to see what damage has been done…" Blindly—Theon was reaching out for her. Coarse-fingers attached to her wrist.

His breaths were uneven.

"S-S-S-San-s-sa…" Cold. Shuddering sounds emerged. She understood.

Bleary—tear-wet eyes sought her out. Though she doubted he could actually see her.

In that moment—she decided she did not care if he reeked of filth—and other men's seed, and piss. He was like ice.

So cold.

Shivering.

As a youth her father taught her basic survival. Skin to skin was the quickest way to warm a freezing body. Nimble-fingers undid the fastenings of her robe. Let it cascade to the rug. Quickly, she unlaced the ties of her nightgown—drew that over her head. And climbed underneath the furs. Pressed the bareness of her form—tight to his. Like a frightened puppy, Theon inched close. Instinctively latched hold of her—and shuddered. Sansa drew up the furs—and cuddled him.

She could survey for damage later. He would die from cold, before his wounds.

Despite the smell, she comforted him as best she could. Ran soothing—soft fingers all along his muscles. Kneaded his skin with loving coos, against his remaining-curls.

Let their tears mingle, together.

She felt so tired. Just like he was.

And without thought—she fell to sleep in his arms.

Reek

Wrapped in warmth—Reek faded in and out of consciousness.

Blackness would come—and then fade.

Was it day? Or night?

His mind was boggled. Skin afire.

The haziness was fading; but still encompassing enough.

Once warmth—transferred into cold—chill.

Teeth-chattered. Skin screamed for heat. He felt impossibly cold.

Scarlet hair waved in front of him. So near. Was it?

Sansa? He struggled to speak her name—was not even sure he had.

Then boiling heat encompassed him. Held him—stroked him. He liked the feeling. It was good.

After so much hell. So much pain…Was he forgiven? Was this what forgiveness felt like?

He sank into the heat. The gentility—after so much agony. There was kindness—mercy.

Was this death?

He plunged into darkness before he could find out.

Repulsive odor was the first clear, concise thought that came to mind. Now that his thoughts were again, working—he tested another piece of his form.

His muscles.

He lifted his right arm—It moved. Without the heavy-weight of resistance. His pain level was the only thing holding him back.

The punishment fit the crime. He gave in to Sansa—loved her—and was punished. Dearly.

He could think of no other reason he was forced to undergo, such cruelty. What had he done to those men?

His mind could not weave out the details. It was all so fuzzy.

Then—realization overcame all else. Warm, snug arms were around him. A naked—full bodice.

Sansa—!

Reek jerked clear of her hold.

In doing so, he felt it—truly felt—the pain. His own suffering.

And wrenched cries broke free from his throat. It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Ribs. Back. Front. Head. Face.

Everything.

Stickiness coated him. Male-seed, and the potent stench of urine….

"Theon? It is okay—You are safe now…Safe…"

Reek heard sleepy words befall his Lady's lips. He was not safe.

Not so long as he was here—what if those men returned? What if—Why had she let them hurt him?

"W-Why d-did you l-leave m-me?" Hurt words parted from his sore lips—It hurt him to speak.

"Reek?" Disbelieving tones dispersed from pink-tinged petals. Sudden horror written into her eyes. "I-Is that you, in there?"

He recalled the tug—the yank as his other personalities hid, whilst he was mutilated. And hurt.

They never cared for him.

Never.

"Y-Yes, M-My L-Lady…" He squirmed. Halted—when pain was felt.

She was on her knees, hovering above him in an instant. Thumbs brushed his cheeks with calming-tender swipes. Reek made a little noise in his throat. He was frightened.

Why had he been forced to endure so much hurt?

"Where are the others? Where is Theon?" She pried.

Trembling. Reek poked around in his mind. Prodded. Searched. The others were deep in hiding—He could not find them—Could not push them into the open.

"I d-d-do not know M-My L-Lady… I could n-not move…they h-hurt me…Why d-did they h-hurt me?" Reek pressed.

He needed to know.

"I know not, Jon found you. Near a brothel in the village. What were you doing in a brothel, Reek? Do you remember?"

Her lips were so near to the corner of his mouth. He could feel her hot breath. See the worried appearance in her blue-optics. She was frightened for him. Genuinely. He could feel her hands tremble.

"N-No…I…I woke u-up and t-they were h-hurting me…T-Theon m-made me c-come out…"

A pained expression crossed her face.

"Why did you not fight back, Reek? Your body is strong now—You are not malnourished anymore. You should have been able to fight back…" Tortured words fell from her lips. Her thumbs brushed tears from his splotchy-cheeks as they fell.

His head shook, "I-I tried…I c-could not move r-right…Everything w-was fuzzy. T-The pain w-was lesser…" He strained to remember—latched his mind onto memories. Prodded. Poked. Theon was gripping tight to his memories. Not releasing them.

Not allotting him access.

Still, he deserved to know what he was tortured for. What he did wrong.

Brief glimpses of images scattered. But did not connect. Not properly.

Strawberry kisses—warm arms that were not Sansa's—and then fuzziness. Wine.

It was in the wine.

"M-Milk of the P-Poppy…was in the w-wine…" The memory of taunting—jeers—and then blackness came forth.

"They drugged you?" Sansa's voice was nary a whisper.

He nodded.

"T-Theon w-will not l-let me see a-all of it…H-He brought u-us there…Theon d-did this…" Reek felt tears. Repulsive twists in his stomach.

Had he not been tortured enough? At Ramsay's hand? Was it not enough he endured humiliation—and rape consistently with Ramsay…but now, when Theon found himself in a web of his own twining—He was brought forth to stand the brunt of it?

Anger boiled in his belly. Skin felt crawly. He wished it were not his skin. That he was not attached to it. He wanted to be set free.

"L-Lady S-Sansa…?"

Her soft, doting fingers brushed his forehead.

"Hm?"

"I w-want to die…I n-never want to f-feel this a-again…"

And he did. He willed his form to die.

It would have been so much kinder. Better. Nothing here was pleasant for him.

His other personalities tortured him. Only permitted him access to their body when they wanted no part in what became of it.

Even their so-named 'protector', did not protect them.

Sansa burst into sobs. "No, Baby…You do not mean that…"

"I d-do…I am t-tainted. F-Filthy…I t-tire of b-being filthy…" Dull-eyes set on hers.

"Come here…" Warm arms wound around him. He faded into her touch. She was soft—pleasant. Loving. "No one will ever hurt you again."

Haunting tones of the last time she spoke such promising words came to mind. He had believed her then. Let his trust in her build.

"You s-said t-that before…" And she had.

"I know. I know I did…" Hot breaths met his skin. "Stay close to me, Reek. I promise, this time, I will be better."

His skin prickled with fear—but he nodded. Clung to her. Determinedly. He would never leave Sansa—never again. Even the thought of setting foot outside of Winterfell brought him anxiety. Fear. He was never going to leave—never again.

Sansa

Disbelief dominated her thoughts.

She believed that Theon would be the dominant personality. Out—having endured the unthinkable to protect poor, child-like Reek from more hurt.

Not cowering away, somewhere far. Out of view.

What had Theon done to make those men so vengeful? This was vengeance—surely.

Not random.

Targeted.

Reek was in pieces alongside of her. Trembling with fear.

Completely, devastated.

And it broke her heart to hear him plead for it all to be at an end. The pain he must be in…She remembered the hurt that tore through her frame, even when she awoke.

Even now—she could still feel those dreadful aches she dreamt of.

"Reek…I need to see what they have done, Sweetheart. Can you let me see? Hm? I know you are in pain, but I need to tend you…"

Tired-eyes turned wide. Horrified. Reek scooted away—then howled as though he forgot how agonized his form was, when he moved.

"Shh…Do not get upset, please Reek…It will only hurt more if you panic…"

Tears rimmed her eyes. How was she ever going to get him cleaned now? He was so afraid. So ashamed.

She could see the shame built into his reaction.

"P-P-Please, My L-Lady…I d-do not w-want you to s-see…" Sniffles emerged. His nose was congested. His form hidden from view, underneath silken, bear-furs.

She needed him to focus on something else—something good.

So, she inched toward him. Drew his face into her hands, with feather-light touches. Then, kissed his lips. Soft. Barely grazed them.

"You are my husband, Reek. I love you. Nothing they have done will change how I feel for you. I will have the servants run you a hot bath. And I will bathe you, Reek. We will make you clean again—and this time, you will stay clean. I promise. You just have to trust me, just once more. Can you do that for me, Reek? Can you forgive me? And let me help you?" In her heart of hearts—she knew the damage inflicted upon Reek was permanent—quite a bit of what she had seen under these blankets—was permanent. But she would fix what could be fixed.

The patches of curly-hair would re-grow. His skin would no longer be itchy from urine. He would feel clean—She hoped.

He noticeably loosened in her hands. She felt his jaw go lax—eyes return to their natural width.

Pulse slowed.

"You can even suckle from me, Reek. Would you like that? A bit of milk?" Based off the lacerations, and scattered bruises all about his face—she knew his teeth were in even worse shape than before. His gums must ache.

With tearful eyes—Theon nodded.

Blushed scarlet at the mention of breastfeeding. But made no move to decline.

She would give him the world, if it were needed. She had a wet-nurse for Little Robb, that fed him when she could not. She would have her sent for.

She decided to check his mouth first. With loving-fingers she coaxed his jaw open. It went lax. There were jagged-pieces of tooth all throughout his mouth. His front teeth were cracked. His lower ones, shattered. Bleed-heavy at the gums. Blood was oozing all throughout his mouth. It made her stomach turn. But she refused to let him see how much this hurt her to witness.

Instead, she lowered her hands—permitted his mouth to draw closed.

Without words, careful-fingers began to wander. Checked over his curls to see that his scalp was unharmed—and it was. Though some patches had been hacked near the scalp—the jagged knife did not pierce skin.

Satisfied, (as best as she could be) that his head was in no immediate danger—She heedfully drew down the furs. With bated breath—Sansa observed his chest. Saw the old scars from Ramsey. Missing nipple, countless raised-scars. Old.

And then—her eyes widened. Near his lower-abdomen there were various marks, seared into weathered-skin. If she had to guess—they used a fire-poker heated to sweltering temperatures on him.

Her attempt to keep his face stoic—and unreadable—failed. Marks bore along his hipbone, right down to his thigh. And his pelvis. Just above where his scarred-bits were. Above that were letters—carved into his skin. With the blade of a knife. The words 'cock less bitch' were carved. Deep.

Reek would not look at her. Green-eyes were turned aside. Jaw firmly set.

She saw tears tracking down either cheek.

These horrendous monsters would pay. She would hang them herself for what they did.

Sansa recognized blood spatters, between his thighs. Stained in pale-skin. "T-Turn over for me…" Barely able to suppress the emotion from her words—She managed.

He turned. Landed on his stomach—made a low whine of hurt.

She could not suppress the vomit—not this time. She tried—Gods knew—she did.

Bent over she barely made it to the chamber pot, before she was sick into the bowl. The bits of food she ate whilst she worried for Theon all came up. Her stomach effectively emptied.

She wiped her mouth on her discarded nightgown, a few feet away. Gathered her wits—and returned. Forced herself to see.

Dried blood soaked his entire rear-end. Caked him. Not a patch of him was unsullied. His round-cheeks were bruised with handprints. Red-streaks from the hot poker donned each of his rear-cheeks. And horrifically, seared his crack, down to his puckered hole. She forced herself to look. To assess the damage. He was burned—badly. The Maester would need to check on him.

And just up—beneath his shoulder blades. Carved—deep—into skin, were the words 'Reek' and 'Iron cunt.'

How could she fix him?

She lowered down upon the bedlinens—and held him dear. "Oh, Sweet Boy, what have they done to you?" Nudging near to her—Reek clutched her tight. Buried his face in her neck—and sobbed.

Trembled in her arms.

And she held him. Until she could make herself cease to shake.

Enough to give him a kiss of reassurance—in order to order the servants, to run a bath.

Reek

She saw everything.

His shame. Horror. Abuse.

Those tender-sweet hands sought every curve—every crevice of his skin. Touched with gentility—everywhere.

After so much hurt—he only longed for the warmth of light touches.

Sansa was the light.

He heard her vomit—heard as she sobbed her heart out at the mere sight of him.

The light faded. She was repulsed by his appearance. As she should be.

He was repulsive. The epitome of horror—Of disgust.

Still, she gathered him in her arms. Let him leech off of her heat. Take her soft, loving touches—and sigh into them.

He yearned, deep in the pit of his belly to be cleansed of the filth that coated him.

He nearly dozed in her arms as the bath was made—nearly.

When she moved away—he sought her warmth. Realizing she had climbed from underneath the covers.

"Can you stand?" She cooed.

Reek had not tried to get up—not since he first awoke.

He nodded however—determined to make it to the steaming heat that poured from the bathing tub.

It would satiate his hurting form.

It had last time.

Once upon his feet—he ignored the burn of raw-muscles. Blemished-skin.

He made his way toward the tub—Sansa's arms held him upright.

With ease—he sank underneath the waters. Let the pain from his muscles relinquish. Ignored the increasingly-painful sting of his ass.

And sighed.

Gave in to the sense of calm that overshadowed, being submerged beneath watery-depths.

Needful moans, resounded as his muscles loosened.

Dainty-thumbs worked into the crevices of his shoulder-muscles, as she offered him a tender-massage.

"Just relax, okay? I have you."

Reek's eyes drifted to a close. Skin rippled with suppressed-need.

Heat pooled in his belly. Sansa gripped tight to a sponge, lathered it with heated-water—and scented oils—she dragged it over his soiled skin.

Almost animal noises emerged from raw-vocals.

His voice was hoarse from Screams. Pleas—Sounds of suffering.

Carefully, Reek eased right into the motion of her hand. Let her guide across his skin. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Until he was thoroughly done-over.

His fear curbed. Anxiety dwindled.

He was fading—falling into Sansa's fiery-touch.

"Do you trust me, Reek?" Images scoured his mind. Flashes. Last time she asked him this question—He felt the same sense of peace.

With hesitance—He nodded.

"Open your legs for me." Reek shuddered. Remembered Ramsay's strong—rough, voice ask the same of him. Then take—brutally, from between them.

Fretfully—He complied.

Eyes clenched shut—He would not look. Would not see, what those cruel men did down there. How they hurt him.

He felt her scrub, light, even-rubs. Along each thigh.

And she cooed to him, the whole time. Her words made him feel loved. Good. Melty inside.

"You are doing so good, Reek. So good." Her words shot tingles through his spine. He found her neckline, sought comfort in the pulse of her carotid-vein.

Her free arm came up, wound around his chest. Touched light, little strokes to his stubble-laden cheek.

He whined, low in his throat.

"Lean back for me."

He did.

Let the water submerge his head. Held his breath. Water was a weakness for Reek. It reminded him of Theon's memories. The Iron-Islands. Of salt-blood. And home.

Another home.

From a long time, past.

When she pulled him back up—He sputtered. Coughed. How long had he stayed under?

He had memories of holding his breath for a long time. He was a good swimmer—or Theon was.

"Reek, are you okay?" Worried tones invaded his thoughts.

He gave a little nod. He was fine. Tired—but fine.

"I like the w-water." He admitted. For some reason, he was mildly embarrassed to admit to it, out loud.

"Course you do. The sea's krakens are in your blood. Just as wolves are in mine. You must miss the sea, Reek. Your home." Her tone, saddened. He heard the sorrow there.

Home was wherever Sansa told him it was.

And wherever she laid her head—he wanted to be there with her. In this life—that one thing he decided—when he thought back to the memory of Theon's marriage to her. The love she gave to him. Sheer joy. It settled over his heart—made him light as a feather. Even now—when so much turbulence—scorched underneath his skin.

"W-Winterfell is my h-home. The s-sea is not my h-home." He decided.

He felt her jaw pull into a smile.

"You are my home, too, Reek." She always seemed to understand what he meant—even if he did not speak the words.

Contented, Reek nudged her with his nose, in quiet companionship.

Discomfort shrouded him, as his achy skin throbbed with sudden disagreement. The water was cooler—from time past.

He made a low whimper.

"I know—everything must hurt." She cooed. Loving-fingers grazed up his chest—then down. Underneath the water's surface. "Do you want me to make it better? Hm?" Low, barely audible whispers tickled his ear.

Pink-petals were inches away. Shivers chilled his spine. He flushed—nuzzled deep into her neck-crevice. Embarrassed to admit to his pain level—Reek held his position. Stirred. Ached.

"Is that a yes, Sweet Boy?" His insides turned squirrely when she spoke to him with that low-sultry tone. He melted—And needed.

Her hand traveled—rested—just over his twisted, scarred-stub. Brushed light trails over his pelvis. His thighs were drawn together. He squeezed them.

Ignored the sharp-pain when he shifted.

"Open your legs for me." The second-time this evening she asked it of him. He did trust her. More than anyone.

He complied.

Spread them wide—granted her access.

"Focus on me. Just me—Nothing else." Sweet-alluring words, intoxicated his mind. Inhibitions vanquished as tender-fingers met with his stub. Instant-gratification caused him to shudder.

He whined.

Suckled at her neck, out of instinct. Mewled with lust.

Hips began to rut up—right into circling-fingers. Carefully, she proceeded to rub him. Make him need—want—wantonly.

Drool leaked from his mouth—upon her neck.

"Here…Shh…That feel good? Hm?" Mothering tones called to him. Her fingers reached into hair-curls, and lowered his head. Soon, his lips met the pink-swell of her nipple. And he took her sweet-milk, deep down his throat. Into his belly.

He gave into his basest instincts—and rutted into her fingers. Moaned in loud, needy whines. Suckled from her with abandon—and such need.

His eyes-crossed, skin flared with heat.

"There you go, Reek. Take your fill." She coaxed into his ear. Which only heightened his sexual appetite.

Time melted—his mind drifted—and he felt the explosion in his lower-half. Lips dribbled with milk. Both teats depleted—and his belly full—swollen. Her hand came to a slow stop against his swollen-need.

"I l-love you, Lady S-Sansa…" He hummed.

"I love you, too, Reek." His eyes were heavy.

Drooping. Depleted of strength he found himself drifting in the warm bathwater. Bliss—overriding the pain—at least for a few moments.

Enough to fade into oblivion.