nysalogs | Semi-closed

[ He’s frightened and crestfallen all at once, but he’s still that young man who beats himself up when the tears even threaten to spill. This is strange to him, allowing himself to lower his guard, but there’s comfort here.

He thinks of his mother, her face nearly lost to him, and the last time she embraced him, and it all clicks together. What Claire is doing isn’t so dissimilar to Lady Stark refusing to leave Bran’s side after his fall, or trying to protect Robb from making poor decisions. She’s acting as a mother might. She’s been acting as a mother for months.

Another pitiful sob of laughter. How is he only just realizing it now? ]

I’m sorry.

[ He’s not even sure what he’s apologizing for. It’s just an ingrained response, and one of the few he can think of babble out between tears. He wipes them away, shaking his head. ]

Thank you. Thank you for bringing these to me. They’re…I don’t want to cut the fingers off. Please. They're fine.

[ They really are just gloves, but all he has of Robb are memories, and some of those memories have been tainted by his own betrayal. It’s nice to have something tactile and real, something that he can’t mess up. ]

[She's never heard him say thank you or please as many times as she has these last two days. He looks like a stranger, with that pale hair that Claire drops her hand from, but he's not. She knows him. He's just had the walls of his fortress destroyed. It'll take time to rebuild. She knows that, too.

Because she's Claire, and some habits are hard to break, she fishes out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and presses it into his hand without a word about the tears. They don't bother her. This is much more preferable than him saying he's fine. This is honest.]

You're welcome. I hope they make up for the rest of the clothing, if they're not to your liking.

[Except she pays attention, and unless his tastes have changed (very possible), she thinks she did right by him. And if they happen to be reminiscent of Greyjoy colors, well, certainly it's a coincidence.]

[ Ramsay can be thanked for his newfound politeness. It’s a result of the fear and all the begging that comes along with it, but it takes on a more genuine form here with Claire. He’s grateful to have something of Robb’s, he’s grateful that she thought of him. It’s only himself that he scolds for being so emotional over such a small thing.

His breath hitches in his throat when she offers him her handkerchief. It’s something so small, but meaningful. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t ask, and that’s preferable to speaking about those tears. He dries his eyes, sniffling, and he turns a bleary gaze to the other pieces of clothing for the first time. He hadn’t noticed them at first. ]

You haven’t just stolen from Robb’s wardrobe.

[ It’s an attempt at a jape, but they both know that if he’s swimming in his own clothing, Robb’s would be even worse. His tastes haven’t changed. He’s still drawn to his house colors and to finer fabrics. He can’t help it. ]

Robb dressed too much like his father anyway. Dull, the Northmen. They all dress the same.

[ He’s still drying his eyes, still breathing like he’s going to cry again, but he reaches for a piece of clothing and he seems to approve. ]

Borrowed, thank you very much. [Borrowed as much as she borrowed Brianna's blouse, knowing she'd never see her again. As much as she'd like to see Robb again, for Theon's sake, she's sure his chances are about as much as Bree's when it comes to waking up.] I stopped by the shops on my way back for the rest of this. No thievery involved.

[It cost more coin than she should be spending, given that she hasn't set foot back in the Sanctuary since her kidnapping and rescue, but the cobwebs in her coin purse are worth it. Clothing is so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But it's something to talk about as he regains his composure, and it keeps her from letting the burning behind her eyes win.]

I noticed. Ned and Jon would blend into the bloody furniture.

[Borrowed. He huffs out a laugh, and for a brief moment he feels like his old bitter self again. He isn’t coming back to reclaim anything.

He lapses back into a brief silence, a pale ghost looking inconceivably paler in contrast to the pile of dark clothing. It’s a surprisingly short moment of silence. He’s apparently found a sense of comfort with Claire along with these gifts. ]

I never liked to blend in. They were going to stare anyway, so I gave them something to stare at.

[ Sure, it was vanity, but it was vanity with a purpose. Everyone knew who he was, what he was, and they regarded him as such, so he made them see just who he was. The heir to the Iron Islands, golden krakens on everything he owned, but he took everything he owned for granted. Now, he touches those fine clothes like they’re just as fragile as he is, his eyebrows knitted together. ]

Lord Ramsay didn’t give me much in regards to clothing.

[And they're going to stare now. His teeth, his hair, his posture--in time, these things could be helped, but she doesn't like the thought of people looking at him in horror. Especially those that knew him before. But it can't be helped immediately, and so he'll at least have nice clothing to wear.]

I imagine not.

[Hesitantly, she reaches to touch his hair with a sad smile. God knows what made this happen.]

If this is too much of a bother, I can color it for you.

[ He knows they will, and that’s difficult for someone who once took so much pride in his appearance, but being stared at in horror or pity is better than being stared at in anger. Pity doesn’t come paired with pain or the potential for more hurt.

He jumps, just little, and reaches up to touch his own hair. It’s grown longer, and there isn’t a single dark strand or dark curl left. He doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s very clear that it isn’t going to go back to its previous color. ]

Maybe.

[ He frowns, not looking forward to the process. For now, this is fine. He's put up with it for months, and it isn't as though it pains him. ]

Maybe at a later point.

[The little jump gives her pause, but he's not as terrified as he was, and so she simply smiles and tucks some of his hair behind his ear. An unmistakably motherly touch.]

There's no rush, darling. You're still handsome. You always were. He didn't succeed in taking that.

[He might be startling, and take some adjusting to, but the eyes are still there. One day he'll look less like the walking dead, be more than skin on bone. There are much more important things, though.]

But if there's anything you'd like me to try and fix first, please let me know. Even if it's just... aches and pains. You don't need to suffer them any longer.

[ He snorts, unconvinced. He hasn’t looked in a mirror just yet, but there’s nothing handsome about splintered teeth, scars, and ribs visible enough to count. He was handsome before, though. He knows that much.

He falls silent, running his tongue over those splinters in his mouth. ]

Teeth can’t be repaired.

[ He’s never heard of a maester repairing teeth. Teeth are neither flesh nor bone, but they are unfortunately the worst of his troubles. It hurts to eat, sometimes to the point where he would rather take his meals completely in wine. Everything else hurts as well, but he’s grown used to it. He doesn’t wait for a response, because he thinks he knows that there is only one: no, they cannot. ]

Everything else has healed.

[ Not particularly well, but it's all healed. He limps when he walks and sometimes bleeds through his boots, but that doesn't seem worth mentioning. There are some fresher wounds hidden beneath his clothing, but they'll scar over in time. It's nothing he isn't used to. ]

[Claire's pulled her fair share share of teeth, but never repaired them. She imagines anything done to Theon would require removal of those shark-like teeth, and he's far from ready for that sort of trauma. Still, she's not about to let him think there's no hope.]

We can do something. Implants, dentures--but only when you're ready.

[She's itching for him to allow her to examine him properly so she can address the damage and take care of what she's sure is there and he's simply not mentioning. But she won't push.

Not yet.

They'll just have to work on him getting used to her touching him. A thing he only just tolerated before his return to stasis.]

Until then, we'll work on getting your strength back.

[ He shows those teeth as little as possible, often covering his mouth when he speaks. It’s clear that they’re what bother him the most. Ramsay ripped away his only real coping mechanism, and now he can’t hide behind his smiles or his laughter.

He doesn’t know those words: implants, dentures, but they offer him some faint hope. He doesn’t expect miracles, but perhaps he’ll be able to eat properly again. He nods, and he asks no more questions on the matter. ]

You can leave, you know.

[ He doesn’t mind her company, actually. He was so long without the company of anyone beyond dogs and torturers, after all. ]

There must be others who you need to see to.

I'm not leaving. [Unless he began to scream and shout for her to go, but that doesn't seem to be the case.] This is where I want to be.

[Where she's most needed.]

I'm not boring you, am I?

[She gives him a small smile. Boredom is probably not a worry of his.]

Edited 2018-05-08 13:50 (UTC)

[ He shakes his head. He can’t be bored if he’s too exhausted to entertain himself, but he feels…off. He frowns, glancing around the room in silence as he attempts to pinpoint why. ]

I feel as though I should be doing something.

[ He’s nothing but skin and bones, but it isn’t as though that stopped him from doing daily work as Reek. He was a servant as well as a prisoner. So long as he could perform tasks, he was put to work. ]

Like what? You can do whatever you'd like, Theon. [A luxury she's sure he wasn't afforded before. And as weak as he is now, she doubts he'll want to do anything too outrageous. Still, she offers suggestions.]

I can find you a book, or we could play a game, or... I don't know. Anything. Go for a brief walk. Or, continue doing nothing. The only obligation you have is to rest.

[ When they left the Dreadfort, Theon took to wandering the ruins of Winterfell at night when he couldn’t sleep. It gave him something to do, some way to occupy his thoughts despite the cold. It never put his mind at ease, but it helped. On those walks, he wasn’t Reek. He was Theon, accompanied only by his ghosts.

He’s frightened, but he feels cramped in this room. It’s safe, but locks and doors can’t keep out the inevitable for long. Maybe Ramsay is preoccupied. Maybe he has better things to do. A walk can’t hurt. ]

A walk?

[ A limp, in his case. ]

Not far. Just...far enough.

[ Far enough to clear his head. It may even get him talking. ]

A walk. [That's a surprising choice. He won't get far, and Claire won't let him overexert himself, but he can't be cooped up in here forever.] Some sunshine will do you good. It's a nice day.

[Probably no riots or kidnappings in the forecast.]

You can try your new clothes.

[She pats the pile of folded fabrics. They were bought thinking he'd want to hole up for some time yet, but this is a good sign, she thinks.]

[ He shrugs, running a hand through his colorless hair. He doesn’t care if it’s nice or if it’s freezing. He just wants to be certain that his mind doesn’t wander too far. After all, Reek hasn’t disappeared. He’s still lurking somewhere in the dark depths of Theon’s mind, and he doesn’t wish to find him again. He wants to stay Theon, not Ramsay’s creature. A walk will do the job, and perhaps he’ll find some other way to occupy himself afterwards. ]

I don’t walk quickly.

[ It really is a wonder he and Jeyne made it as far as they did. ]

It may be troublesome for you.

[ He does take a set of clothing into his arms, though. If he changes his mind now, he’ll never leave this room. ]

It won't be troublesome, Theon. It's all right.

[She can walk slower. Claire has infinite patience when it comes to the changes of his body, though it does bring her to something she knows he won't like.]

... if you're going to undress, you might as well let me take a quick look at you now. You can say no. [A reminder.] But I'd like to see how you are, so when the time comes for us to start figuring out what we can fix, it's not too much of a shock for either of us.

[He might say he's fine and that he's healed, but that means little to her. If he walks slowly, has a limp, she's sure there's some way to remedy it.]

[ That suggestion brings him pause, and a sharp intake of breath. No, he doesn’t particularly want that, but he doesn’t say no despite the fact that she’s told him that he can. He tries to keep telling himself that he’s not in the Dreadfort, that Ramsay is not in this room, that he could just get it over with because Claire won’t give up until he does. He toys with his sleeves, gaze dropped as he makes a quick decision. ]

Just don’t touch me.

[ His voice is nearly a whisper. She has a point. It’s easiest to deal with it now, but he can only handle so much at one time. ]

[How many times had Jamie said those exact words to her? No doubt Theon brings back a number of unpleasant memories in this state. This state of mind. Knowing as much as she does, she nods, swallowing the burn in the back of her throat.

Over two decades later and it still creeps up on her. Theon won't fare any better.]

I won't touch you. Just do as you normally would. Pretend I'm not here.

[ Despite that soft voice and all his hesitation, it’s a struggle for Theon not to roll his eyes.

It’s difficult to pretend when you’re sitting right there.

Fragments of the old Theon are still within him somewhere, even if they don’t present themselves quite as frankly as they used to. He silently chooses his clothing and lays it out in preparation. Although he trusts Claire to keep her word, it’s clear that he wants to make this as quick as possible.

Speed does him no good when he strips his shirt off, though. It isn’t subtle. Every rib, every vertebrae is visible. His arms and his torso are covered in a mass of wounds and scars, most from the blade of a knife and others from the coil of a whip. Most have healed, just as he swore, but some remain bright red where the skin has only just begun to knit back together. It’s a glimpse, just a glimpse before he nervously throws the new tunic over his head, but it’s more than enough.

He doesn’t speak at all while he finishes dressing. If he speaks, he’ll call further attention to himself. This isn't Ramsay, this isn't the Dreadfort, no one's touched you he reminds himself once more. The clothes fit his half-starved frame better than his old ones, though, even if they remain a touch too big. He pulls on Robb’s gloves and turns to face Claire with a look in his eye that can only say “and now you’ve seen”. ]

[Thanks to the war (both of them), and a husband whose back is thick with the scars of two hundred lashes given with a bullwhip, Claire remains still as a statue. Seeing soldiers is one thing; seeing someone you care for so abused is another entirely. It hurts. Yet she only lets her eyes roam over his frail body, silent. She does swallow hard, though, when she notes how his bones jut through his pale skin. While she knew he was thin, starved, she didn't quite reckon it was that bad. As she thought, the scars tell her a horrendous story, but she's glad to know it. No crying, no hand flying to her mouth to keep her heart from leaping from her throat.]

Do you like them? [She talks about the clothes because she knows it took a lot for him to let her see what he's become. He doesn't need to hear her mental checklist of what she believes she can work on.]

They suit you, I think.

[ He stares for a moment, almost daring her to pity him. He’s had enough time to pity himself, but this is how it is now, he knows. This is how it’s going to be for the rest of his life. Those scars won’t disappear, his teeth and fingers won’t regrow, and his hair won’t return to its old dark color. He’s worried more for what may happen if Ramsay should find him.

Admittedly, though…new clothing, clothing that actually fits, can do wonders. He has to admit that Claire did a fine job choosing things suitable to the old Theon’s tastes, and the new Theon’s tastes aren’t too far off. He’s just thinner, he chills more easily, and he would hesitate to pridefully deck himself in krakens like he used to. ]

I do.

[ He brushes that white hair back from his face, and briefly wonders if he could look anything like his old self if he put on some weight and just kept his mouth shut. It’s a vain thought, but he’s always been a vain man. ]

Unfortunately, all I can repay you in is plants.

[ Maximus can take it out of his non-existent paycheck. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t been completely forgiven for quitting the Royal Guard. ]

[Jamie had told her she did a fine job of letting him know she felt sorry for his scars, but didn't make him feel pitiful for it. She imagines, back then, it was because he couldn't see her face when she was standing behind him and tending to the bullet wound in his shoulder. Now, decades older, she understands how important that was for him. It must especially be so for Theon. He's not as resilient as Jamie, never quite as sure of himself.

So, she smiles, even if faintly.]

Lucky for you, I love plants. But I don't need anything in return. Consider it... a welcome back gift.

[He might not ever look as he once did, but Claire believes he can look much better than he does. Even a day's made a difference--some food in him and some clothes have done wonders. And he seems to trust her more and more, looking less like a frightened rabbit in her shadow.]

Shall we, then?

[She rises to her feet. After a moment of consideration, she turns to offer him one of her hands.]

You let me hold onto you and you slowed your pace for me, once. Remember that?

[After her own bout of torture. She never thought the tables would turn like this, or so violently.]

Edited 2018-05-11 05:32 (UTC)

I remember.

[ Theon may be broken and wounded, but he’s still stubborn as a mule. He shakes his head, refusing her hand. For once, it has nothing to do with her touching him, but it has everything to do with pride. He limps and he walks slowly, but he made it work for himself for months—and that was with fetters between his ankles. He’s grateful to be free of those. ]

But I’m capable of walking on my own.

[ Even if he does seem just barely capable of holding himself upright. He frowns a little, though, his eyebrows knitting together. ]

It feels as though that was years ago. But it wasn't, was it?

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