nysalogs | Semi-closed

[ He just doesn’t want to hurt for a time. He’s always in pain, whether it’s the poorly healed wounds stretched across his chest, or poorly healed bones, or his teeth, but he wants to be free of anything new, just for a little bit.

Max’s unhappiness is news to him, though. They’ve barely spoken since Theon arrived home. Maximus helped to calm him down, helped to reassure him that Ramsay wouldn’t be invited into their home, but then Claire took over. ]

I suppose not.

[ He frowns, though, looking genuinely concerned. He knows how Maximus gets sometimes, and he never considered that he might be uncomfortable with someone intruding into his life. ]

I didn’t think this would upset. He doesn’t have to look after me if someone else already is.

Don't worry about it too much. [She says, seeing the look on his face.] We're all adults, and he does understand why I'm here.

[He's just eager for her to be out of his space. His tune might be different if she wasn't around at all, and if he were indeed the sole person looking out for Theon now, but there's still time for him to figure that out.]

But I will go, after this week. At least in the evenings. I'm sure you'll appreciate the break from me, too.

[A gentle tease. Theon doesn't hate her company, she knows what much.]

Regardless of Max, whenever you need me, or want me, I'll come. I promise. You come before anyone else.

[ Was this how Theon was before he reunited with Yara? She doesn't step closer, though instinct would dictate she does. That he's so quick to bolt the door, locking her with him, speaks more to his current state of mind. She's less of a threat, isn't she?

But still likely a threat, seeing as he knows little to nothing about her. Her chin lowers, eyes still focused on his features, and then she allows her gaze to drop to the floor. Soon it's sweeping up and around them, taking in his living space, allowing him the privacy of recomposing himself. ]

Things which displeased him. What sort of things would he hurt me for saying?

[ What sort did he hurt you for saying, is what she's really asking. ]

[ He shakes his head wildly. He won’t repeat those words or those names, not out loud, never again. Not even if the door is locked or Ramsay is far out of earshot. He can’t bring himself to do it or bring his tongue to form the words.

Don’t make me say, his expression alone seems to beg, his eyes wide as he shivers in his own skin. He takes a different approach instead. ]

You must only call him by his name. Ramsay Bolton.

[ The fear behind his eyes says enough as to why. Don’t dare to call him Snow or refer to him as a bastard, or the flaying knife is your fate. It took a long time for Theon to break, and his insults toward Ramsay and his baseborn parentage were merciless before he finally did. ]

[ So she'd done right by referring to him as Bolton. That hadn't been a move out of preservation, but one out of politeness. She's never been one to think much of parentage--save for her own--but the pride of being someone... well.

Ramsay Bolton was a prideful thing, wasn't he? ]

I will. Thank you. [ If she reads that fear, she makes no motion of recognizing or reacting to it. Not overtly. ] Upon his awakening, lord Bolton bent the knee to house Targaryen. Do you understand what that means?

[ Of course he will, he's not a fool--but she'll ensure he does not misinterpret this, and she would have him hear it from her and not another. ]

[ He’s taken my fingers, not my wits, he wants to snap at her, but again, he doesn’t. He speaks carefully, this new Theon Greyjoy. He says less of what he feels, and he seems to weigh his words carefully before he says them. He hasn’t been made more polite, but he’s been frightened into being subservient.

He knows what it means. He knows Ramsay better than most people do, though he wishes he didn’t. He wishes he had just raided the villages along the Stony Shore, or better yet, he wishes he had simply returned to Robb when his father refused the alliance. ]

He’s trying to earn trust. Yours, or someone else’s. I don’t know.

[ I don’t care. He’ll not earn mine. ]

[ It’s hard for him not to worry. He worries about every creak of the floorboards. Not worrying about angering one of the few people he trusts is a chore, to say the least. A week is a long time, especially to ask of Maximus, but Theon knows he needs the help. He can’t bring himself to go out alone just yet, and Maximus has the shop to run. ]

You’re not as irritating as you once were.

[ He mumbles the response, looking down at his gloved hands. It’s a sweet sentiment wrapped in awkward words. He’s grateful for her company and for her help, so much so that he thinks he might even miss it when she leaves. It's his way of expressing that. ]

[Maybe you're not the devil after all.

Claire smiles, looking down at his gloved hands as well. Of all the relationships she's had in this city, this is the one that's been the most frustrating--and the one that's seen the most growth and improvement.]

Nor are you.

[And not just because he's had his spirit broken.]

Maybe one day Maximus will feel the same.

[ That earns the ghost of his smile once again, just a small tug at the corner of his mouth. He knows he’s always been a difficult person, an incredibly stubborn person, but he wouldn’t have survived this long if he weren’t. ]

Maybe.

[ He doesn’t think so. He and Maximus are similar: paranoid to the point of being almost unwilling to trust, but Theon has been starved for love and acceptance. Then again, perhaps Maximus has been too. ]

It isn’t as though you’ve tried to jab him with a needle, after all.

Very funny. [Maximus likely wouldn't let her come within a foot of him with a needle in hand. He already eyed the food she made with intent to share with him as if she put something nefarious in it.]

I won't let anyone know that's the secret to getting into your good graces, though.

[She's actually not sure what the secret was--persistence, perhaps. She could see that, before at least, his personality didn't really give much incentive for people to stick around.]

[ Claire’s persistence certainly helped. You can’t continue to push someone away when they simply won’t give up. It’s something Theon needed all along: someone who wouldn’t give up on him despite that hard to swallow personality. ]

You won’t have to do any of that now, will you?

[ He looks uncertain. He already knows to expect a lot of pain and one jab of a needle is less than he's known in recent days, but he’s seen so much blood. He’s lost so much blood. The less he has to see now, the better. ]

No. No needles, darling. [She doesn't need his blood. And even if she did, she'd push it off as long as possible.]

I don't need to draw blood. Are you worried about that?

[He wouldn't understand, having only seen the after effects of both Sansa and Theon's torture. He heard the games and only seen one form of it, but this was different. This was a level of cruelty that he would never have been able to fathom.]

I know he won't. He has no way to hide now. He can't come at you the same way as before.

[Which was no comfort, really. It meant that Ramsay would adapt his style.]

Theon, you should think about staying with Claire and Sansa.

[ He hesitates. There’s still that part of him that doesn’t want to appear weak, but that’s something that’s nearly impossible now. He’s grown so frail and so frightened, jumping at his own shadow. The thought of more blood shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

He shrugs, trying to downplay his worries just a little bit. ]

No.

[ But he can’t make that seem particularly believable. ]

I’ve just seen a lot of blood as of late. That’s all.

[His own blood. She can only imagine was it was like, gaining the injuries he has now.]

I can promise you that anything that needs to be done, you won't see blood. [He'll probably (hopefully) be out for the things that will require some clean up: his teeth. He'll be in a miserable state after, and that's saying something. He'll either be staying with her, Jamie, and Sansa, or she'll be grating on Max's nerves once more.]

I've been fixing bodies longer than you've been alive. I'm going to do everything in my power to make this... tolerable, and I know how to do that well. You've suffered enough for one lifetime. I'm not going to inflict any more, or let you wallow in it. Understood?

[The wimpering cower is wonderful, though Ramsay's expression doesn't reveal it. His gaze is narrow and unflinching. Almost carelessly he pulls the blade along Reek's cheek, scraping the skin without cutting- until he nicks the gaunt skin that's stretched thin over Reek's chin.

At the sight of red on his blade, Ramsay sighs a put-upon sigh and the murderous gaze vanishes.] I can see I've got my work cut out for me. Yes, Reek. You spoke too rashly. We'll work on your manners after you've got some suitable clothes.

[Releasing him, he pats Reek's cheek condescendingly. Isn't he just the best? Of course he is.]

[ It doesn’t hurt any more than a poor shave might, but it shakes him to his very core. He can hardly hear Ramsay over the sound of his own heart racing, and for half a mad moment he thinks it would be an excellent idea to wrestle that blade away from Ramsay and finish the job himself.

No, he warns himself. It’s never worked before. Just listen to him. Do as he says.

As he struggles to find his words, he can’t help but notice something strange about that voice in his head. It’s begun to sound a lot less like Theon Greyjoy and a lot more like Reek. ]

I’m sorry—

[ He gasps it out, pale as a ghost. He might pass for one if not for the thin trail of blood in his beard from where Ramsay nicked him. Whether it’s the knife or the voice in his head that’s frightened him more, he doesn’t know. ]

I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to. I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

[ He's terrified nearly to the point of tears. Other Ramsay did some kind of job, alright. ]

[Ramsay allows the begging for a moment before interrupting Reek with a quiet shush.

He speaks to the man as he would a spooked horse, calm and certain.] I know you're sorry, Reek. You're confused and you're making mistakes. But I understand, and I forgive you.

[He expects thanks, so he waits for them to come before moving on.]

[ Though instinct tells him to continue begging out of his desperate hope of not being hurt, he knows better than to continue when he’s been silenced. He swallows all his pleas and gives a shaky nod of understanding. He is confused, isn’t he? He’s confused so often. ]

Th-thank you, my lord.

[ Hesitantly, he dries his watering eyes on his sleeve. He was fortunate not to have earned a slap across the face for his tears. ]

That’s very kind of you.

[ He doesn’t know what it is to not be miserable. He doesn’t strive for happiness anymore, he doesn’t strive for acceptance. Now he would just like to be left untormented.

He looks uncertain, frightened, but he gives a hesitant nod to show that he understands. Claire seems to think that these things need to be done and that they’ll help in the long run. ]

What…what are you going to have to do, then?

You don’t know him.

[ Not like I do. Theon recognizes that this Ramsay is not the same Ramsay who did these things to him, but can there really be that many differences? The other Theon still took Winterfell, after all. The other Theon still carries all the sins of the Theon who stands before Jon now. He thinks he can apply his experiences with the other Ramsay to this Ramsay, and the Bastard of Bolton is an adaptable man.

You should also think about minding your own business, he thinks bitterly. There was a time when he would have simply glared and made a cutting remark, but Claire has requested the same of him. Theon knows they only suggest it because they care, but he’s still hesitant. He shakes his head. ]

Maximus isn’t Lord Ramsay. They look alike, but--they're not the same.

[ Lord Ramsay, a habit he can’t bring himself to drop. ]

And it’s safer for Sansa and Claire if I stay here.

[She was hoping he'd not ask that. Not right now, at least. Reluctance paints her features, but after taking a breath, she explains.]

Well. Those teeth aren't doing you much good as they are. I think it's best if they come out. [Just what he wants to hear. Claire's quick to add:] That will be the worst of what needs to be done. And I'll medicate you well enough that you won't be awake for it. Everything else will just take time. Stretching out the parts that healed incorrectly, and getting strength back.

But only when you're ready. I'm not going to force you into any of this, Theon.

[ He knows he shouldn’t ask, but he thinks he would rather know than be left in the dark. Maybe he can gather the courage to endure it—but what she says only drains his face of what little color it had to begin with.

He falls silent, running his tongue over the jagged splinters that remain of his teeth. They’re painful, and she’s right, they aren’t doing him much good, but he manages. Isn’t that enough? He still feels pain, even when he’s asleep. He closes his eyes, his expression pinched. ]

It’s…enough. He left me with enough. I can still eat.

[ He’s clearly frightened and trying to come up with excuses. He can hardly eat at all. ]

You can eat, but I know it's painful. [God forbid he bite his tongue or lip on accident. Those teeth will draw more unwanted attention than no teeth at all, and with so much physical discomfort. Gently, she rubs his arm, as if she could warm some courage back into him.]

It's scary, but I do believe you'll feel so much better once it's done. I don't know how long you've been living this way, but it's not something you need to endure any longer, Theon. Theon doesn't have to live like this.

[She tries to laugh, but it's more like a breath of air.]

... and if it's because you really enjoy my concoctions, I can find occasions to still make your meals.

[Meals that have been mostly liquid and sprinkled with vitamins and such. After seeing how thin he is beneath his clothing, she's glad she's been cautious when it comes to his menu.]

[ The sound of his name snaps him back away from the edge of that dark place again; the place where he defends what’s been done to him, or tries to make it seem just a little bit better than it really is.

For a brief moment, he considers telling her that he doesn’t enjoy her concoctions, but he’s learned not to complain. He was starved for too long, he’s eaten rats, and any food that he doesn’t retch back up is better than nothing at all. He doesn’t have the humor to tell her anyway.

As he stares back down at his gloved hands, he quietly mumbles: ]

I don’t want to live at all.

[ It isn’t about his teeth. Even if Claire can relieve his physical pain, he’s still in constant fear and emotional pain. He still feels guilty for the things he’s done, and he still has’t found a way to free himself from that prison. ]

I never asked to, but I’m craven if I don’t. After all of this, I'm still craven if I don't carry on.

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