Part 34; To Rupture a Psyche.
La douleur exquise;
The heart-wrenching pain of
Wanting the affection of someone
Unattainable.
Reek
Blinding.
Fractured.
Pain.
Why was there pain?
Such pain? Flashes.
Imposed from the blackness.
Screams. Sansa.
Theon
What was happening? What was this?
Memories. Fractured. Together.
Hurt.
Pain.
Agony.
Protector
It would not stop.
It would not stop….
Sansa
His eyes would open. She could see them. Sometimes, they moved.
Sometimes—he jerked.
But he never spoke. Never.
Then, his eyes would close, and he would not awaken again, for hours.
The Maester told her that he had a seizure. Some form of mental breakdown that resulted in a seizure. She had not told a soul (even the Maester) about what triggered this breakdown. It left his mind squandered. Weak.
The Maester dosed him with Milk of the Poppy, due to his apparent pain. He would whimper, sometimes. Make little noises. And tears would fall.
The Maester feared the worst, a brain hemorrhage. Without opening up the skull, there was no way to know for certain. And to open up his skull, would mean to kill him.
So, she hovered at his bedside—held his hand.
And prayed to the old Gods to forgive her, for her sins.
She never returned to the men in the dungeons. Told the guards to take over in their torture—and deaths. She would never go down that path again.
Never.
That path, may have cost her the man she loved. Her own spiteful nature hurt Theon, and Reek.
Her inability to forgive a broken spirit, caused this. What had he done to himself, because of what she had said? Done? The Maester told her that even if he were to awaken (truly awaken) that he might never be the same.
He might even have lost one, or more of his personalities. Or his memories.
What if he could not remember her when he woke up?
She did this.
And it was all her fault.
She settled at his bedside, listened to the rise and fall of his breathing. Held his hand. Watched as his eyelids flickered—and eyes opened. And he stared—but made no motion to indicate awareness. Not a squeeze to her hand, or a smile from his lips. Nothing.
Blankness.
Always that.
She would bring Little Robb to him, settle the babe on his chest, for comfort. Let him feel the soft touch, and jitter of a baby's laugh. Of Little Robb's hands.
He would touch in a confused manner, at Theon's face. Then smile, in recognition, and laugh.
Sansa always felt a grip in her heart when she saw Little Robb's reactions.
Within a week—she missed Theon, Reek—even the protective side of him. She missed him, as a whole. Within a month, she would have given her life to reunite his mind with his body.
And within three months—that hope dwindled.
She brought Robb more, and more. When he learned to crawl. He would crawl over the blankets. Nuzzle close to Theon, and fall asleep. He preferred his father's warmth. Sometimes, Sansa believed, even Little Robb knew that she had let an iciness engulf her heart. That she had helped to kill a part of herself that morning. She had not meant to destroy his mind. Only wound him a little.
Robb was growing every single day. His first words came, swiftly. 'Dada' and 'Mama' emerged from his lips. She made certain he understood who Theon was. Prayed he understood that he would have embraced Little Robb, if he could.
Robb learned to walk a few months after he crawled. Around the time Jon's son was born. Alren. The pinkness of a newborn made Sansa turn with upset, in recollection of what she could never have with Theon. A child. Such a silly folly, considering he might never awaken at all.
But one that wounded her still.
Jon would visit Theon's bedside. Make certain she had a meal, even if her stomach was hollow with emptiness—he forced her.
She would tend him in silence, feed him meals, when his eyes were open. Reflexively—he would swallow. She would change his diapers, the same as she did for Little Robb. She never let anyone else, aside from the Maester, touch him.
She whispered apologies, every night into his ear, as he slept. Pleaded for him to return to her. Any of him. All of him. Whatever remained.
She would kiss his cheek. Offer him soft touch, to account for all the bad things she said that day. She would even touch him. When she changed him, he would pulse whenever she wiped against his part. And make little noises. The Maester told her that she should offer him as much familiarity as she could. In order to coax him back. So, she did. She touched him. Until he whimpered, shivered, spent against her fingers. His body still worked. But his mind refused.
She would open the curtains. Let in the light, for him to see. Winter snow, fell just outside. Coated the ground, offered cold, and chill. She would speak to him of the last winter she remembered. The one when she was a child. And hold his hand, all the while.
By the time Robb could walk, and speak babbled words—everyone else within Winterfell, had lost hope. But Sansa didn't.
She never would.
Four years Later
Spring livened the ground. Snow melted into pools down in the courtyard. Warm-weathered birds returned from their journey to the south to ride out the Winter freeze. Colors budded on the trees, and bees pollinated flowers, their wings buzzing benevolently.
Long, winding, scarlet tresses of hair, were pulled up unceremoniously into a current, Northern-style atop her head. Sapphire-blue eyes, though deep—and beautiful, had long since lost all light. The glow that once was spoken of, in the Northern beauty dwindled to nothingness. So rarely, did those thin lips draw into a smile.
Only for Robb.
Stiffly, Sansa extended her hand down to Robb, felt tiny fingers latch on to hers.
Sometimes, she could hardly believe herself, how her son had grown.
He was strong. Yet, kind. With bright, shinning blue-eyes. And skin that glistened, like the sun, with pinkness. His auburn-curls piled atop his head, gave his face a spritely shape that reminded her so deeply of Robb—it hurt.
No trace of Ramsay existed in his bright little soul. She had never so much as seen him kill an ant. He regarded life, with great care. For his last name-day, Sansa purchased him a horse of his own. A stead, with a beautiful coat of chestnut-brown. And a white-diamond on her forehead.
She remembered when her father had purchased Robb his first horse, he had taken such proper care of the creature. Named him, Midnight. Owing to his black coat.
Not even her brother had taken such care of his horse, not like Little Robb.
They had just come from the stables. He had tended to his horse's mane, mucked the stall, and spoken to her, all the while.
The long winter had finally come to an end. Dwindled like the sun, and Little Robb would finally know a spring, that would lead into a (hopefully) equally, long summer.
"Can we see, Papa, now?" Sansa felt her heart constrict in her chest.
Even the mention of Theon made her sick with dread. These days, she could barely look upon him, without the express, recollection of what she had said and done to him, that night.
She was no longer that woman. That girl. She had been young. She no longer felt young, but aged. Tired. And lonely.
Jon had attempted to insist that she denounce her marriage to Theon (being that he was barely alive) and marry anew. Always with the hope that she would agree.
She never did.
Even if she could have found it in her heart to love another, she knew that she did not deserve to. Not after the state she left him in. Like a vegetable. He was mindless, ate food, had normal bodily functions, but never spoke. Never moved.
"Of course, we can." But still, Sansa wanted Little Robb to know his father, any way that he could. Even if it was just through stories from her memories of him. And visitations to his bedside.
Little Robb was beloved in the castle. Everyone he came into contact with, loved him. Even Theon seemed a tad-bit brighter, whenever he was in the room.
She guided her son, through the halls. He smiled, and waved at all those that passed, made a point of learning names, and faces. He was ever the curious one. Always so filled with spirit, and adventure. If he picked up anything from his lineage with Ramsay, it was his need to know things. Curiosity.
In his own contorted way, Ramsay had been curious. With an expansive need to know things. But he used his curiosity as a reason to torture. Whilst, Robb used his to grasp the world around him. Like a cat, he searched for answers.
"Do you think Papa will wake up, soon, Mum?" Those curious, almost-penetrative blue-eyes cut her to the quick. He asked so often. He regarded his father with hope, and longing. He wanted to know him so badly, it stung.
"I do not know." It was the same unsatisfactory, answer as she gave every time he asked. And as always, he frowned, then lowered his gaze to the stone.
"Maybe if I stay near him, he will wake up. Doesn't he want to know me, Mum? I do not understand why he sleeps all the time."
She bit back tears, "It is not your fault, hey—" She stopped him in his tracks. And turned him to face her. Knelt down to his level. "You understand that, don't you? Your Father loves you, with everything inside of him. He loves you so much. Of course, he wants to know you. Why would you even think that he wouldn't? Hm?"
She searched his eyes, and could tell they were troubled. A flicker lingered in them. Small, barely prevalent. But a mother could always tell.
Robb avoided her eyes, suddenly interested in the cracks of the stone.
"Robb?" She pried.
"I heard a few of the maids whispering…They said that he isn't my real father…that I was fathered by a monster, and that…" He swallowed thick in his throat. Tears rimmed his eyes.
She had promised herself—and Theon—Robb would never know about Ramsay. She would have to have a severe talk with the members of the castle staff.
"What? What else did they say?" Tensely, she kept a firm grip on his arms. Unprepared to have this conversation with him today. (Or any day for that matter.)
"They said that my real father mutilated Papa…that…that Papa cannot have children of his own." Sansa wiped her son's tears. Felt the wetness on her fingers, and brushed them, subtly on her dress.
She knew that a lie would not erase this. If he ever did come to hear the truth of it, again. He might never forgive her for lying. So, she told the truth.
"Theon was there when you were born, Robb. He held you when you were still a babe, and he loved you, then. They were right. Theon cannot father a child, not anymore. And your real father…he was a monster, but I never want you to think that you are not loved, because of him. You are not, Ramsay. Ramsay was a twisted man. He hurt me, and Papa. Badly." She could see the pain, contorted on Robb's face. See the tears falling faster, and more potently. But he stayed, standing. Bravely, sought out her eyes, to witness the truth of her words in them.
"Hurt you…how?" Robb questioned. "Is he the reason for…for the scars?"
Sansa chewed on her lower pleat. Uncertain if she should tell her young son, any details. But she also knew his curiosity would have him asking everyone else, if she did not. He already knew of the scars that donned her flesh.
So, she tugged over the neckline of her dress. And let him see one, in the daylight. A long-thin, scar that Ramsay left her with.
"C-Can I…touch it?" He asked. Even though his little fingers must have grazed it a thousand times before—this was different. He knew where it came from now. She nodded, and his fingers reached out. Brushed the white, slightly, raised scar.
"Why did Ramsay hurt you?" He retracted. Innocent-eyes gawked up at her.
"Because he was sick, Sweet Boy. There is no logical reason, why he did it. But I was married to him, for a time. You are not a bastard child, not a Snow." She told him, gently.
His eyes widened, "You were married to someone other than, Papa?"
She nodded, solemnly.
"Your Papa saved me, and it almost cost him his life. He was brave, and gentle. And I fell in love with him, because of his gentle nature." She sighed, lightly. "You are nothing like the man that fathered you. You are like my brother, Robb. He died before you were born. But you would have gotten on well with him. Your spirit is similar."
Robb smiled at her, through his tears. And she wiped them again. Prior to pulling him in for a hug.
"Now, come on. Let us go see, Theon." Hand in hand—they proceeded.
Robb climbed up on the bedcoverings. And cuddled, close to Theon. His chest rose, and fell against the blankets. His face was worn, and tired. His skin sickly, pale. His cheeks hollowed out. The muscles he had built on his arms, were long faded.
Sansa would exercise his arms, and legs. Keep his muscles from atrophying, but he was still not active enough to keep tone, to his muscles.
Sansa's skin still tingled, where Robb's finger had traced. The image of his curious eyes attempting to make sense of the suffering caused by Ramsay—made her heart ache. One so gentle as Robb could never understand. No one could. Darkness could intercept a soul, latch on—and refuse to let go. She had felt that twist. That darkness. It had claimed her—burdened her, and she had succumbed to it. Until she felt the world cave in around her. Until, Theon broke apart at the seams.
Darkness came for every person. It was up to the individual, whether they succumbed to it, or drew away. Sansa regretted her choice.
To see the man she loved, confined to these four walls. Hollow, and broken? It shattered her.
Unequivocally.
Over the years, her bones ached with the memory of how it felt to be touched. She had nearly forgotten the sensation of those rough, male hands on her skin. She missed the gentle kisses on her lips. And the whispered, reassurances that Theon would give. She missed Reek, and Theon. She missed him. All of him.
Her skin was uncomfortable. She slept alongside her son, now. Little Robb was her only sense of human contact. The only segment of her that did not feel dead. But thrived. He was all she had for light, and joy. She taught him, the way Robb taught her, to share warmth in nudity. Jon knew—and chastised her, for the way she parented her son. It was unnatural for a mother to lay in nakedness, with her son. But Robb was little yet, halfway past his fifth name-day. He would suckle from her sometimes, in the darkness. No one knew that either. No one else, but her and Robb knew that she kept her milk flowing. Squeezed in the privacy of the privy-room, to keep the stream constant.
In case, Reek ever woke up—she wanted him to have her milk. It was a secret. She taught her son, about secrets.
"Papa, Mum said that you saved her once. From a horrible, man. She told me that you were brave. And that you love me." Robb hung around, Theon's neck. Nudged his face into the crevice of his shoulder-blade and neck. Then left a kiss, there. "I wish you would wake up." He hummed.
Sansa wiped a few stray tears. Summoned her strength, and settled on the edge of the bed. Took Theon's hand in her own, and kissed the back.
She rarely gave him physical contact that wasn't absolutely, necessary, anymore. It hurt so much to touch him, and know he could not touch back.
His hand was warm, soft. He no longer had callouses on his palms and remaining, fingers. His skin was pale, wrist, thin. But he was still, Theon. And she felt guilt, for not offering him much physical contact anymore. She could not even bring herself to touch him when he pulsed to life as she changed him. It felt like a violation somehow. To his poor, decrepit flesh. Could the pleasure even be felt? She did not know. Could he even feel at all? There was no telling from the state his mind was left in, now.
And which pieces (if any) were still trapped in there?
Sansa watched in nostalgia, as her little boy whispered soft things, into Theon's ear. He would belay stories, and occurrences throughout the day, onto Theon, because for all they knew—he could hear them.
And when Robb, finally tired of visiting with Theon, he asked her permission, to go down to the courtyard, to play. She granted it to him. And he was off.
She was left alone.
Theon's breathing her only companion now. Regret shadowed her heart. Skimmed the surface. His cationic state, drove a wedge into her emotions. Rigidly, she settled in complacent silence for a long time after Robb left. She did not know, how long—but it lasted.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"Reek…Theon…If you are still in there, I want you to know that I am sorry. For everything. I promised to keep you safe, most of all, Reek. And I failed you. Again. I can never tell you just how sorry I am about all of it. I wish I could speak to you again. Touch you—really touch you. It has been so difficult, to watch our son grow, without you here. Truly, here." Her lips grazed his knuckles.
Tears landed on his hand, sobs rattled her shoulders, and she dipped down. Kissed the chapped surface, of his lips. Hummed in tired, contemplation. As she drew back up. Let her lips tingle with the proof of his.
In a moment of tired, weakness, Sansa decided to do something. Something she had not done, in four years. With cautious eyes, she crossed their chambers. Clicked the lock on the door. She did not want to be disturbed. And returned to his side. Hesitantly, she removed her dress. First the stays were unlaced, then the fabric, shoved down her trim hips. Finally, she unlaced his gown. Drew it overhead. Watched his arms droop back onto the bedclothes.
With a final movement, she laid down. Only his cloth diaper between them. His skin was warm. Flush to hers, as she curled an arm around his waist. And tucked her face into his neck's crevice. Before long, she was asleep in his arms. The covers drawn up to her chin.
Reek
The jumble never ended.
Never.
There was hot. Cold.
Love. Hate. Ramsay. Sansa.
Touch sensory—sometimes haziness.
It all disconnected. Synapses attempted connection—enlightenment.
Then blackness plunged in on him.
Again and again.
Light came. Sound came.
Then nothing.
Sansa looked sad. So sad.
He tried to touch her. Rub her hand—but he never could.
A strange boy would hold him. Touch him. Speak to him.
He felt like the round; cherubic face should be familiar.
It wasn't.
Nothing was.
Nothing ever was.
Until warmth—skin. Contact.
Pleasure used to be felt—sometimes.
It had left long ago.
Sansa…Sansa…Why was she so sad…?
Why?
He wanted to know…He needed to know…He wanted—
And then the black would come for him.
Always the black.
Blinding light came. Imposed on his sensitive corneas. Blinded him.
Why was it so bright?
He could see beauty. Feel full, round breasts pushed in on him. Heat—body.
He made a sound, low in his throat. His throat was dry. Parched.
He felt like he had not drunk in ages. He was sore.
Beauty—light slept beside him. So beautiful.
So pretty.
Slow, decrepit movements were made. He sought out the full, thick, mammaries clad against his chest. Suckled, lapped at the teat in hunger. Instinctively lapped down the substance. And moaned, heavenly, in his throat.
"Shh, Robb…s'alright…" Confused for a moment, Reek was too parched to care.
He continued to lap—and suck. Weakly. His body felt like it weighed a ton. Like a movement was akin to lifting a building.
Sansa stroked through his thick curls. It only made him feel more need. He was starved for touch. It felt like he had not had it in ages. He leaned up into her fingers as he suckled.
His thoughts were simple.
Difficult to decipher—and heavy. Oh, so heavy. And he took note of strange padding around his hips, but his arms were too heavy to explore. He laid half-atop his lover—and kept feeding. He fed, until he had his full.
And when hazy eyes landed on him—and gasped. Reek froze. Rigid.