nysalogs | Semi-closed

Then I'll make it easy for you.

[Which will mean a lot of mashed things. Claire frowns, watching him hide his teeth from her. They'll have to do something about those, eventually. Just like the rest of him.]

When you're ready, I hope you'll let me look you over. I think I can make you more comfortable. But that will mean I'll have to touch you. [Eager as she is to get him in better shape, there isn't a rush. There isn't a reason to push him and frighten him more than he is. God knows how long he's been like this--a few more days, a few more weeks, won't make that much of a difference.]

You remember how it was between us, don't you? I never lied to you, Theon. I was always honest with you.

[That's not about to change now.]

[ That suggestion sends another sharp spike of fear through him. That war is still raging in his head. Claire is a maester, and he knows that her hands don’t wound as Ramsay’s do; they heal. Being touched, though, being seen…

He need to separate Claire from his experiences in the Dreadfort. She won’t harm him. He hesitates, but he nods. Eventually. It might take some time, but eventually. ]

I have scars. Wounds. I’ve lost track of how many.

[ Countless, and not all of them from Ramsay. Some are from the dogs, before they grew to know him, some are from Ramsay’s men. Ramsay wasn’t the only monster who lurked within the Dreadfort; he was just the worst of them. ]

I stopped counting eventually. After a time, it was just easiest to keep count of my fingers instead. Seven is a sacred number in Westeros.

[ His voice is still thin, but at least he’s speaking now. He’s making an effort. ]

It's all right, Theon. However many injuries you have, however many parts of your body ache, I swear to you I'll do what I can. [She keeps her voice soft, not wanting to frighten him any more than he is. She can't do much for his teeth, or his lost fingers, but she's confident she can do something.

God, she has to be able to do something.

Claire watches him quietly before she speaks.]

There are... seven gods, aren't there? Ned and I spoke about them, once.

[Seven gods and none of them did a thing to help this poor soul.]

More than.

[ He frowns, flexing his remaining fingers. He never paid attention to the Faith of the Seven. He never paid attention at all, not until the old gods whispered his name in the godswood. They knew his name when he’d nearly forced himself to forget it. ]

But there are seven new gods.

[ Northmen usually aren’t raised beneath the Faith of the Seven, and neither are the ironborn, but the thought always gave him comfort. Seven fingers, seven gods. It was never a bad thing. Seven fingers were enough. ]

More old gods. The Drowned God.

[ That thought makes him pause. ]

I saw my sister. She didn't recognize me.

Right. I remember you telling me about the Drowned God. [Another that let him suffer. Claire watches him move his hand, those remaining fingers. If Fergus could live a life just fine missing an entire hand, she's not going to worry too much about Theon's fingers. He'll be all right.

The Theon that shared stories about his Drowned God seems like a different person than the one sitting before her. No wonder his sister had trouble recognizing him.]

You do look very different. [So tired, so worn, so fragile. Like an old man. But he hasn't aged much.]

And that's all right. I know it's you, and I'm glad I get to see you again.

[Though she wishes it wasn't like this. It's not fair.]

I look like horseshit.

[ A faint spark of the old Theon, despite the fact that it isn’t paired with a laugh or a smirk. He’s just tired, so tired. He leans his head against the wall, looking as though he could pass out at any moment, but he doesn’t. He just drops his gaze to his lap and scratches behind the dog’s ears with his better hand.

He has so much more to say, but the story is so long. He dreads repeating it again. Asha looked as though she thought him mad when he has recounted the events for her, but surely Claire will understand when the time comes. ]

The Dreadfort and Winterfell are inland. The Drowned God doesn’t find men who drown in blood.

[ Perhaps that's why he went on living. He had no way to get back to the sea. ]

A bit, yes.

[She doesn't lie to him. Claire knows there's no use in coddling him over his appearance--in time, he'll fill out. She can bring some color back to his skin, do something about his hair. All in due time.

She thinks he might always look tired.]

Do you want to get some sleep, Theon?

[Talking can wait. She wants to know what happened to him and she doesn't. His body will tell her enough, but if he wants her to hear the words, she'll listen.]

Horseshit that’s been trod on.

[ He’s probably been literally trod on, at some point. He can’t remember between everything else.

He does want to sleep, but his eyebrows only knit together at the suggestion. There’s things he wants to say, before he forgets. Before things in his memory grow confused and muddled once more. He wants to be sure he’s heard, be sure someone knows. Ramsay couldn’t take his wits from him, but this place confused him once before. It could confuse him again. ]

It was Lord Ramsay who burned Winterfell.

[ Lord Ramsay. He can’t seem to drop that undeserved title, even now. ]

It was his idea to kill those boys in place of Bran and Rickon.

[ I carried out the deed, but I never would have without his influence, he thinks bitterly. ]

He flayed their faces. [ He huffs out a soft, breathless laugh. ] Fools. People are such fools.

[And then put through a blender, though Claire's certain he doesn't know what that is, so she keeps that comment to herself. She does open her mouth to speak, to tell him can rest and she'll see about a meal for him, but then he's talking before she can and calling that bastard Lord Ramsay.

But more importantly, he tells her the truth behind a tale that's trouble her since he told her about it all those months ago.]

It wasn't your idea, then. [Maybe his hands carried out the task. Still, it makes a difference. It wasn't some darkness from the corner of his soul brought forth, his own mind thinking that it would be a good idea to kill some innocent children when he couldn't kill the youngest Starks.

He must have been terrified. Christ.

Claire feels her eyes burn. She doesn't want to cry in front of him again, and so she looks down at her lap.

He still murdered children but how can she reconcile that with the poor wretch before her now? He's paid for every crime he ever did and ever could do.

Slowly, she exhales, and then lifts her eyes to look at him.]

Don't call him Lord Ramsay. He's not your lord. He's not anything.

[ He shakes his head. No, it hadn’t been his idea. He would have likely continued to search for the Stark boys until he went mad, but he still can’t say what might have happened if he had actually found them. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He knows now that his place was with Robb, not foolishly trying to live up to his father’s expectations. ]

Don’t—don’t say he’s not anything.

[ If he was frightened before, he’s petrified now. For the first time, he reaches out, a skeletal and mangled hand weakly gripping Claire’s arm. What little comfort he took in telling himself that Ramsay’s hearing can extend no further than any other man’s has disappeared, leaving him trembling, wide eyed, and genuinely terrified. ]

Don’t. Please. You don’t know what he’ll do.

[But she does know what he'll do. She sees the possibility before her. Claire puts her hand over his, lightly, when all she wants to do is take him in her arms.]

Theon. It's all right. He's not here. [Not close enough to know what she's saying, though she's said worse to his face. Foolishly. Claire's never been good at holding her tongue.] He's not going to hurt you again.

[She wonders if it was his sister that saved him, and how long it took.

Too long, clearly.]

You're safe. I know you don't feel like it, but you are. My husband, my friends, they'll keep you safe, too. Ramsay is no lord. He has no house, or men, or fort. He has nothing.

[ He doesn’t flinch at her touch this time. He’s wild enough with fear over her words that a gentle touch on the hand is all but blocked out.

He wants to scream at her to shut up, that he’ll know, that he may not be here now but he’ll hear somehow. His face is white with fright as he quivers, eyes darting around as though he expects someone to emerge from the shadows.

No one does. But still, he can’t relax. ]

You must never say those things about him. He is a lord. He was legitimized by the boy king who sat upon the Iron Throne.

[ As if a nine year old's word means much. ]

[It's not worth arguing with him in this state. More distress is the last thing he needs.]

Okay. I won't. [She's glad to not talk about Ramsay at all, but what else is there? Asking how he's feeling is ridiculous.] I won't say another word about him. No harm is going to come to you, Theon. Remember.

[ That seems enough to ease the tightness in his chest, though not much. He still looks white-faced and panic stricken even as he slowly withdraws his shaking hand from her arm. He knows she won’t throw him back to Ramsay, but he’s not so sure what will happen when he has to leave this room. He can’t stay here forever.

He nods, but he’s still shaking when he leans back, resting his head uncomfortably against the wall once more. He’s grown even more exhausted than he was before, but there are still so many things he needs to remember to say. ]

I need to speak to Sansa and Jon.

I'll let them know you've returned.

[And warn them about what to expect. She can't imagine he'll be much more relaxed around them. She'll give them privacy, though she's not planning on going too far very soon. He's frightened and he's weak and he's liable to fall apart at any moment.]

What else would you like me to do, Theon? [What do you need me to do? She had asked before.] I can fetch you more pillows, blankets. Draw you a bath. Anything.

[ He doesn’t look forward to speaking to them, but he knows he has to. He has to tell them what’s happened and put their minds at ease over Arya. At least someone’s mind can be at ease over something.

Undeserving, he thinks. They never put my mind at ease.

But he’ll do it. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself. ]

Nothing. I’m…fine.

[ He has never told a worse lie in his life. He’s always cold now. More blankets would be nice, but he doesn’t dare ask for them. ]

You can leave, if you need to.

[Claire laughs. Despite herself, she laughs, because even now he's spewing that I'm fine line. If she doesn't laugh, she'll cry, or she'll jokingly threaten violence, but she doesn't dare. So, all she does is laugh, rubbing her hands over her face and looking at him as if he did just tell a clever joke.

But it's not actually funny and so the laughter dies soon enough.]

I've spent the last three days crying over you. I don't want to leave. [She'll cry over him still, mourning in a way, though not in front of him. He's still alive. He's still here. There's hope that one day he might actually be fine. Right now? Right now, he's heartbreaking sight. No, no wonder his sister didn't recognize him. Jon and Sansa might not, either.] I'm staying right here. You'll figure out soon enough that I'm not going to suddenly hurt you, or trick you, or do anything but help you readjust. If... if I ask you a question, you can say no. You can talk back to me. Nothing bad will happen.

[How dire it must be for Claire to encourage lip.]

[ Theon recognizes that type of laughter all too well. It’s the type of laughter that someone uses to hold themselves together, or to stop themselves from doing something rash. He used it for years as a coping mechanism, until it finally stopped working somewhere in the darkness beneath the Dreadfort.

Hesitation shows on his face. Ramsay would often attempt to encourage misbehavior as a trick, just to be certain that Theon knew his name. Not his true name, but he name Ramsay gave to him.

But Claire is not Ramsay, he reminds himself, and he forces himself to make a request to solidify it in his mind. ]

A blanket, then.

[ He gestures to where the extra blankets are kept, uncertainty in his eyes. ]

I…perhaps I’ll feel like talking back to you after I’ve slept.

[There. She smiles, more than happy to hear that, and leaves the bed to fetch whatever blankets and pillows are there. He wasn't going to get just the one.]

Let's get you and Nagga comfortable.

[Claire drops the pile on the foot of the bed. She never thought she'd be more or less tucking Theon Greyjoy into bed, but here she is.]

Under the blankets.

[ He’s not particularly comfortable in the bed, but he doesn’t try to explain that to her. He knows it will only be more upsetting. He spent the last few months sleeping in the dirt and straw with the dogs. The sudden shift back to a bed is strange, to say the least. It’s too soft, and he only allows Nagga onto it with him because the familiarity of a dog taking up space grants him some semblance of comfort and safety.

He’s likely to end up on the floor later on, and then he’ll explain. He’ll explain everything. The kennels, Abel and his washerwomen, Jeyne Poole, everything. For now, he’s too tired to do anything but obey. He reaches for one blanket, pulls it over his frail body, then hesitantly reaches for second, thicker one. Nagga, ordinarily an energetic show-off, seems to sense that something is wrong with him, and simply curls up beside him, resting her head on his chest and wagging her tail. ]

This is enough.

[ Even if he were more than a ghost of himself, he doesn’t know how to be taken care of. He was always cared for when he was ill, of course, but it’s been a long time since he was truly mothered by anyone. It's a foreign concept to him. ]

Thank you.

[It's been a while since she's done this. Brianna was always an independent child. The moment she realizes she could tuck herself in, read herself to sleep, she refused to let Claire do it. Still, she'd do it when she could when Bree would fall asleep on the sofa or on the rare occasion she crawled into her bed, missing Frank, and refusing to admit as much aloud as she buried her face against Claire's shoulder.

Hardly that now, as Claire fixes the blankets where she can without getting too close. No one's ever looked at her and been so afraid before.]

You're welcome, Theon. [Theon, his name, a thing she's sure to say often now.] I'll be near. I'll wake you when it's time to eat something.

[She almost dares to touch him, to brush some of that white hair away from his forehead, but settles for giving Nagga a gentle pat on the head.

Claire leaves him to his rest and goes about making him a plain meal, easy to eat with mangled teeth and easy for a stomach to digest. She doesn't push him, doesn't do much but sit with him when he's awake, listening to anything he feels like telling her, and speaking softly in return. And she sends Jamie a message: I'm not coming home tonight. Just what every husband wants to hear on his birthday. She promises to make it up to him, and she promises herself that she will.

When it's time for her to turn in she ends up scrolling through the network instead of actually sleeping. Too many concerns and too many questions swim around in her head. So, when the sky begins to lighten, she heads back home. She needs a change of clothes, some supplies, and Theon could do with some clothes that he's not swimming in. He'll need to go outside, eventually, and he did take a certain care when dressing himself before.

It's still early when she returns, and so it's a quiet knock at his door so as not to startle him too terribly.]

Theon? Are you awake?

[ He sleeps, but not deeply. His breathing is shallow and his body is rigid, like he could wake up at the sound of a pin dropping. It’s how he slept the entire time he was in Ramsay’s keeping: on guard, ready to be frightened, ready to be hurt.

He’s awake and upright by the time the first knock sounds. There’s a moment of confusion and terror as he glances wildly around the room, a moment in which he begins to reach into the caverns of his memory to remember the name that was given to him, but then he remembers. Not the Dreadfort, not Winterfell, not even Westeros. He hasn’t physically been there for nearly a year, despite what the marks on his body say. ]

I—yes.

[ His voice still sounds too thin and weak, even too his own ears. Clearing his throat does nothing to help it. He wonders how it can be possible that Ramsay took that from him as well. ]

You can come in.

[Permission granted, Claire steps into the room. Ovid once said Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you. She thought of it after Wentworth, after Paris, after Culloden, and while the words might bring her some fraction of comfort, she can't imagine saying them to Theon. Bloody Roman poets probably didn't have him in mind when setting ink to paper.]

Good morning. [She says instead, just as a way of greeting. Over her arms is folded some clothing which she drapes over the foot of the bed. He can look at them later. Everything is on his schedule beyond meals, for now.]

I got you some clothes that might fit you better until you fill out. If you feel like taking a walk, sometime.

[In her own gloved hands she holds another pair, darker, finer. She looks down at them before she sits near Theon. Close, but at arm's length.]

I thought you might like to have these. I don't know if you want to wear gloves, but it's an option. I could alter them for you to better fit, or we could stuff the fingers. It's your choice.

[Or skip them altogether, but when she was at the house, she found herself stopped at the small collection of Robb Stark's belongings. Not hers to go rifle through, let alone take, but if Sansa or Jon got upset at her removing a pair of gloves she'd welcome them to confront her about it. They had plenty memories of their brother. Of him actually being their brother. What did Theon have?]

Robb's not here to help you. I know he would want to do something. So.

It’s afternoon.

[ He glances through the window with furrowed eyebrows. Time was impossible to tell in the dark. Years and years could have passed and he never would have known, but he has that luxury now. He can see the light over the trees and judge the sun’s place in the sky. In truth, it gives him a certain sort of satisfaction to be able to say what time of day it is.

He gently pushes Nagga off of his chest, pulling himself up to better observe what Claire has brought him. He had one set of clothing in Ramsay’s keeping, rags that were never to be taken off except at his command. It was only when the Boltons relocated to Winterfell that he received anything warmer. And now—

There’s a tug at his heart. A sharp ache. He recognizes the gloves she’s holding out to him. Too small to be Ned’s, not quite Jon’s style, and Theon himself always wore gloves made of silk rather than leather.

They’re just gloves, he tells himself. They’re the same as any Northman wore. It’s stupid to be so sentimental.

But he takes them into his hands anyway, and he can’t help the teary laugh that bubbles up from his throat.

Stupid, he continues to chide himself, but he shakes his head, trying to work up the words to respond. ]

I had so much time to think. To think about what I’d done. Maximus says it was only three days, but it wasn’t. It could have been a hundred years. A hundred years since I betrayed him.

[ His best friend, his only friend. ]

I should have gone back. I should have been there. I should have died too. Alongside him.

Well, you didn't. [The words are firmer in her head, but thick with the emotion that tightens her throat. Maybe if he had died with Robb, he would have never suffered like this, but to think about him dead hurts. He has no idea.] And from what I know about him, I don't believe he'd want that, either. If he knew... if he lived the life you did, from the moment your father handed you over to the moment you stood before him again, he would understand. Even the most honorable of men would struggle.

[But Theon wasn't a man. Robb wasn't a man. They were young, too young. Old enough to know right and wrong, but too young handle the weight on their shoulders.

She takes a deep, shaky breath.]

Do you want to be dead?

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