Part 35; To Piece a Psyche.

We get ill together

we get well together.

Sansa

She dreamed of him sometimes.

Reek, Theon—even the protector. In the woven, precipice of subtle, oasis, Sansa would lose herself to the mournful touches that came only here.

She liked to believe, these dreams were a window, into their mind.

That when she kissed, touched—and lusted here, that it was the echo of her beloved calling to her. Reminding her that he was still in there somewhere. Still alive. And fighting with his own mind, to live. And breathe.

Because she could still remember how he cried for her, when those men attacked him. How she felt his pain—wrenched into wakefulness, with the knowledge that she needed to find him. They were connected. In mind, body—spirit. She had no other explanation for what had occurred.

Or perhaps—the dreams were merely dreams.

As Jon constantly, attempted to convince her, they were.

Either way, the dreams were strong. And always filled with confessions of love—and need. Always left her aching—and drenched between her thighs when she woke.

Tonight, however—the dream felt so real.

She could almost feel him. His flesh. Nearly taste the remnants of her milk, on his tongue. And feel a suckling at her breast.

Enough for her to rouse. And she momentarily, forgot where she and fallen into sleep.

Forgot that Robb was not asleep beside her, like he normally would be. Therefore, could not suckle at her teat.

So, she mumbled to him. Sighed. Dragged her fingers through her boy's hair. And felt curls. Curls that were wound looser that Robb's—wilder, untamed. As she opened her eyes to inspect—the sight that met her, made her blood, nearly run cold with shock.

Those emerald-eyes that she had not seen light up in five years peaked up at her—as though they never closed. Never lost their light—their cognizance. He suckled—as though it were five years hence. And she stepped back into the veil of time, in order to witness, just one—perfect memory with the man she loved.

But with cognizance—came recognition. His paleness, and lack of muscle-tone, were dead giveaways that this was not the past—nor was it a dream. In her dreams he was the picturesque of health. Brimming with shy eyes, and a tender smile.

And his lack of agile, movement—despite his evidently, startled state, made her even more aware.

"R-Reek?" She dared to hope.

Dared—even; to ask.

"Sa—nn—sa…" His voice was slow. As though struggling to form a word. Like his mouth was full of rocks—and would not move properly to match what he wanted to say.

Shivers traveled up her spine. Tears came to her eyes—and without thought to his weakened state—she launched into his arms. Tackled him down to the sheets, and clung on for dear life.

She needed to make certain this was real. After so long without him. Without any belief that he might still have a brain left—She had to feel it for herself.

Had to be sure this was not another spiraling, dream.

Sobs cracked from her throat. She never thought she would see him again—not alert. Or aware. Not like this.

He was by no means, 'perfect' but he was here. Moving. Attempting to speak.

Her lips collided with his milky-tasting, ones. Felt him react—slow—but certain, to her tongue forced inside. All at once, she recognized her own selfishness—she could be hurting him!

And she lifted up. Balanced on the palm of her hand, she sought out his optics. Kept her weight from crushing in on his potentially, sensitive, form.

"Promise this is not a dream…You are awake…and alive…Reek…" Her voice brimmed with warmth—and excitement. Tears landed on his chest.

"P-Pr…Pr…" He tried—and failed to get the word out.

His eyebrows drew together—confusion laced his eyes. Questioning her, silently.

She could see the panic, in them. The fear.

And knew she needed to get help. The Maester—urgently.

"Stay awake for me…Do not move! Stay, Reek." With a swish of a kiss planted upon his chapped, full-lips. Sansa, then, hoisted herself up, with a flash, dashed to the closet, sought out her robe, only to wind it around her bodice, before she unclicked the lock on the door, and raced out into the hall.

Jon, happened to be passing, his son, Alren, on his heel. Raven-black hair, like Jon's, and tired, dark brown, optics peered up, in curiosity. They halted in their tracks. Jon had been speaking in hushed tones to Alren, but she had not caught what he was saying.

"Sansa…Are you alright?" She must appear a fright. She could feel her cheeks reddened with color, her eyes swimming in tears.

Jon released Alren's hand, in order to come closer. Clutch her shoulders to steady her. "Has something happened to Theon?" He motioned with his head, rubbing her arms up, and down in calm, reassurance.

"Speak to me…Use your words." Her mind was in shock. She was still attempting to get the words out.

After all that time, languishing in their marital bed, Theon had returned to her. Or at least, Reek had. Her beloved, Reek…

"He…He is awake! I n-need the Maester…" Finally, she caught her breath. Looked into Jon's eyes, and pleaded for him to help. Her legs felt wobbly, all of the sudden. As though they might give out from the shock. "Alren!" The boy startled as she let out a loud, call of his name. He was unused to such a shrill tone, being used on him.

"Y-Yes, Aunt Sansa?" His little voice was trembling.

"Go find Robb, he is in the courtyard, bring him up here, would you?"

Alren looked to Jon, as though seeking permission, and his father gave a curt, nod. He scurried away, without a look back.

"You are certain he is awake…? Last time, he moved a little bit, you thought he was awake, too. It was probably just a reflex—"

"He spoke, Jon. He kissed me…He is awake!" She yanked on his arm, unable to stand being called a liar, for one more second.

Sure enough, there was Reek. He had (somehow) struggled into an upright position. Back pressed to the intricately, carved, wooden headboard. Sunken-eyes shifted over toward them—slowly. And Jon's eyes widened, in disbelief.

"Gods…" His voice cracked.

"Please, go get the Maester…" Without another word, Jon hurried away.

Reek

Scrambled thoughts—memories, attempted to connect.

Instead—they would splinter—then crack, before returning to nothingness.

So many emotions. He could not process them fast enough.

His mind felt damaged—broken.

Why was it broken?

His skin bristled as his Sansa—tackled him. He felt sore. His back, and legs, had cramps. Feet hurt. But she kissed him—and it was all he could process.

Kisses.

He missed them. So much.

Why did he miss them? Had he not kissed her only yesterday?

Then she was lifted off of him. Gone—with haste. And he struggled to follow—but his legs only moved a little bit.

It still felt like lifting a building—or heavy stone—to so much as shift them. Oh—it hurt.

Exhausted, he gave in. Settled back against the headboard. Felt his chest, heavily—rise and fall with great strain.

His eyes flickered closed. His skin crawled with heat.

Lust boiled in his loins from her kisses. He felt like he had been untouched for ages. But he was too tired to move his arms to alleviate it.

Too tired…

She told him to stay awake. Why wouldn't his words work? He tried to make them work.

Then she was back—and her warm-hands were soft on his chilled skin. He hummed, low in his throat. Leaned into her touch. She was so soft—so warm. Safe.

She was speaking to him again—he struggled to concentrate on the words. On what she wanted him to say.

"Reek…tell me what you remember? The last thing you remember? Can you do that, Sweet Boy? Can you do that?"

He liked it when she used that nickname on him. He liked her honey-sweet voice, when it soothed, and loved him. He felt so good, and loose in his belly when she would offer him meals from her breasts. And coax him with touches. So many touches. His head was woozy—why was it so woozy?

She wanted him to speak?

He could try, again.

"S-Sl…ee…p…with…S-Sa—nn-sa…"

The words came out all jumbled. Like a child's sentence. Like a toddler.

He was not in physical pain—not like when those men hurt him. Not like with Ramsay…

He remembered waking up. If he concentrated hard enough—he saw pictures in his mind. Pictures of morning sun. A want to stay—stay with Sansa.

Then blackness. So long there had been blackness.

How long? How long?

Agony had come. Stabbed at him in the darkness. Stabbed at his brain until there was searing agony. Until he felt half-alive. Until the jumbled-ness started. Until he thought he might die from it.

It hurt. And he fought for so long, in the dark. The dark…

Suddenly, Sansa's weight left the bed. He snapped from his trampled thoughts. Saw the Maester in his garb, with his tools. And he winced. But he could not move far—nor fast.

Could not flinch away as he was prodded, pinched—poked.

He whined in his throat.

"S-S-S-Sannn—sa!" he cried for her.

He did not want to be poked. He did not want to be touched by anyone else.

Just her.

After so much darkness—blackness—pain. So much…

He was finally free of it. Free of the nothingness. Free from this mind.

The little boy was stood alongside her. He saw him. Who was the little boy?

Reek sobbed. Felt his throat burn with the thickness of tears.

"You are okay, Reek. I am here. I am right here. Shhhh…" Sansa had ahold of his cheeks again. She was brushing at them. Lovingly. Kissing him.

He kissed back. He wanted her—only her, here.

He needed to know what was going on. Why was he like this? Why was everything so hard?

His mind would not work. His thoughts would not work. And Sansa—Sansa looked different.

So different.

Sansa

She could see that he was struggling. To speak—to react. His mind was broken—fractured. And the Maester warned her of this, ages ago, but she always believed he would awaken—and it would all go back to the way it was.

He would be weak, but better.

And he would learn to walk again, with time—but also to speak.

What if this was the only state he would ever exist in?

She asked him a question, and his mouth attempted to form the words. She understood them, but no one else did.

"He remembers sleeping with me…right, Reek?" She pressed, and she felt his head bob against her hands.

It was a nod.

She climbed from the bed, and ruffled her hand, through Robb's hair. He was looking on with saddened optics. His eyes filled with tears.

"What is wrong with, Papa? Why can't he speak, right?" He looked upon her, awaiting an answer.

She clenched her jaw, felt her heart swell with pain, but she lowered to his level. And stroked his cheeks. "He is just a little bit tired. It took a lot out of his mind to fight through a seizure. He might have lost a few memories, or abilities along the way. It just means we need to re-teach, Papa, these things."

"You mean he has to learn…like I do?"

"Exactly, Sweet Boy. Just like you do."

Robb peered back at the bed, looking on as Reek began to wail at the top of his lungs. Clearly upset by the touch of the Maester. He was observing his reflexes. Attempting to survey him—to see if there were any lasting damage to his nerves, and tendons.

When she heard her name, shrieked out in distress, she was off her knees, and to his side in an instant. The Maester, instinctively stepped back.

Gave him space.

She whispered soft, soothing words to him, and gave a tender, little kiss. She needed him to feel safe. Secure. It was how she always made him feel safe.

He returned the kiss, and she sighed into it. She was unable to believe that he was so much as awake. His emerald-eyes were open. His skin (though pale) was reflexive. Moving. And his eyes (though seemingly lost) held awareness.

"W-W-Wh…y?"

That single word made her heart lurch with pain. She had done this. Her, alone.

Her actions had decimated the fragile line that held his psyche together. She had never understood how fragile he was—how delicate—until she attempted to punish a piece of him. Now she knew what the consequences were. The divide that he existed in, was unstable. One affliction, could jumble the lot.

And she had jumbled the delicate peace, in which his personalities resided.

"You had a seizure, Reek. You have been gone for…for a long time…We thought…" She chanced a glance at Jon. Leeched off his strength, as he watched with saddened orbs.

"Thought you would never come back to us."

She understood what he was asking without a full sentence. She knew he must be struggling to understand even the simplest of things. Reek had always been child-like. Now, it was worse.

Fear—then recognition seemed to light his dazed eyes.

"H-H-H—ow…l-lon…g?"

He managed to speak.

She warred with her own mind. Uncertain if she should tell him. How might he react to such news? It wasn't just a few days this time. It was years—years of his life, lost.

Tears welled in her eyes, "F-Five years, Reek."

Horror wrote onto his features. His head shook, twitched. His hands bunched into the fabric at her waist, and he closed his eyes. Clenched them shut. He refused to believe it. His arms struggled to wrap around her. Struggled to hold on. And the implication was clear—he did not want her to leave his lap. He wanted her close—wanted to be held.

So, she stayed.

She would always stay.