nysalogs | Semi-closed

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?

[When she might have once rolled her eyes, she smiles instead. Stubbornness is good.]

No, it wasn't. Do you... are you aware of how long it's been, for you?

[Her twenty years were easy, traveling between the stones marking the decades as well as Brianna herself. For Theon, she's not sure. He looks like he's had twenty years and then some dropped on him. Of course, she knows better. It can't have been more than a few years. If that.]

[ The lines on his face only seem to deepen. ]

It was difficult to keep track of time.

[ He was kept in the dark for a long time, with no way to know how many days were passing. Even when he was given information to grasp onto, it didn’t help. It only made his head swirl. How could so much happen within such a short amount of time? ]

I learned that my father died, and that my uncle Euron was crowned king of the Iron Islands. The king who sat upon the Iron Throne died and his brother took his place. I learned that Robb died.

[ Again. He had to learn again. Before he learned his new name, Ramsay often liked to hold it over his head, along with the reminder that his family didn’t care about him. ]

Maybe it was months. Maybe it was years.

[ In truth, it was only one month short of a year. ]

I see. [Months or years, what happened to him doesn't change. So, she supposes the time passed doesn't really matter. Claire frowns, stepping ahead to get the door. He might not need or want her arm, but she'll at least do that, though she makes no attempt to draw attention to it.]

When... you returned to stasis, I didn't know if you'd be coming back, of course. I think if you don't wake in a few days, it's fair to consider the person asleep for good. [She doesn't know why she's admitting these things, or even if she should. Maybe she just doesn't know what else to say anymore.] Jon worried Ramsay killed you. Part of me worried you might have done it yourself, but I was mostly afraid that if you did wake up, you would be like this. Stannis told me about seeing you in Westeros in this state.

[And his description had been bad enough. She'd prayed that Theon wouldn't wake up if it would be like this. Apparently gods in this world have better things to do than listen to such requests, or like in Westeros, they don't care much for Theon Greyjoy.]

You don’t know Lord Ramsay.

[ Knowing Ramsay as he does, it’s almost laughable that someone should think Ramsay would simply kill him and be rid of him.

Lord Ramsay would never be so merciful, he thinks as he slowly limps past Claire, making no arguments at her insistence to get the door. He seems to be focused enough on actually getting through the door that he doesn’t put up a fuss. He can’t promise that he won’t try to kill himself, should he be turned back into Reek, but the thought brings back an old memory. ]

My sister, when she was awake—I asked her what became of me when the Boltons took Winterfell. She told me only one thing. She told me to think of their sigil. A flayed man.

[ This was before his mind became a muddled mess, before people insisted he was in places he had never been, such as Dragonstone and Meereen. He owes Jon an apology, really, but he likely will never give it to him. ]

She had seen me. I think I knew as well, at one point. I just…everything got so confusing.

I didn't think he killed you. [Even now, she knows the worst Ramsay could do to Theon is in the mind. Killing him would take away that fun and all that work, wouldn't it? Similarly to Jack Randall, loathe to kill Jamie because of all the love and care he put into those lashes upon his back.] I knew a man, once, like Ramsay.

[Heading towards the door that leads out into the world, Claire nods. He was confused, before. Is he still now?]

You didn't want to believe that there could be more than one Westeros. Do you still feel that way?

[ There are no men like Ramsay, he thinks, but he doesn’t say. Ramsay is worse than a man. He’s a monster who’s managed to form himself into something man-shaped. Theon can see that now, but he wonders if his mind will remain so clear forever. ]

I think I asked him once, if he would kill me. It was wrong of me to ask.

[ It only earned him further punishment. When the subject turns to Westeros, it brings him pause. ]

I thought it was madness.

[ It still sounds like madness, and he doesn’t think his pride will ever allow him to admit his acceptance of the theory to Stannis. Claire, though—Clare is different. He may still flinch away from her, but he trusts her. ]

That day when you saw my father— [ He clenches a fist in lieu of clenching his teeth. He can’t afford to lose what few he has left, but he still feels humiliated when he thinks back to his reunion with his father. He never wanted me back. ] I saw something as well. Some memory of Jon’s. It was a conversation we had never had, somewhere I had never been, but I recognized it as myself.

[ At the time he thought he looked like a ghost of himself in that memory. But now he thinks that that Theon must have gotten lucky. No white hair or broken teeth. He didn’t walk with a limp, and when he spoke, there was still power in his voice. ]

And Sansa always said that I’d saved her. [ He pauses, frowning. He never believed he saved anyone, but now he has. ] Sansa was never there. Not in the Winterfell I returned to.

Jon and Sansa were always upset, I think, because you seemed to be... so different from what they remembered. I think you had come to some sort of common ground with them, and here you weren't. You actively pushed them away.

[Not too harsh to say now when it was so obviously true. And he pushed all the more when they insisted he had been different at home. Their home.]

The Jon and Sansa here might not be the ones exactly from your Westeros, but they still do know you, and you're still the same people at heart. They still care about you.

Now they’ll hardly recognize me.

[ He might roll his eyes if he weren’t putting all his energy into this walk. Nagga has decided to slip out the door along with them, nipping happily at his heels, but he pays her no mind. He knows what he did before returning to stasis, and he doesn’t regret it. He was confused, and his countrymen only aided in that confusion.

He regrets what he did in Westeros, though, and he regrets not making amends with Robb before he returned to stasis. He falls silent as he focuses on stepping carefully, stepping slowly, his remaining fingers curled into his palms. It was always him and Robb. Just him and Robb, when it wasn’t Robb and Jon. The other Stark siblings had a difficult time finding anything redeeming about Theon, and Theon never cared much for the in turn. ]

They never accepted me in Winterfell. I didn’t see any reason why they should care for me now.

[ The concept of people changing is a difficult one for Theon to grasp when he still, even after he’s been through hell and back, clings to a few bitter childhood grudges. Not quite as tightly as he used to, though. ]

When we’d escaped Lord Ramsay, we meant to go to Jon. We meant to make for the Wall. He’d been made Lord Commander--he could have beheaded me on sight. I wouldn’t have cared. It would have been a mercy.

They were younger, then. So were you. [Different than they are now. Wiser. The Jon Snow she saw in a memory was not the young man that stood with her, and she knows from Ned's own tales that Sansa was no longer the young girl he once knew. How can you be, when your family has been slaughtered?]

You and I didn't get along well, when we first met. I thought you were arrogant and harsh.

[Claire Fraser, at thirty, would not have imagined herself weeping over the loss of Theon Greyjoy. He was a brat, and she forced herself to be kind to him after a while, but it took time and some more life experience for her to forge what they have now. A trust.

Her strides are not as long as they might be, and she keeps to his pace for it. She's not hiding the fact that she's watching him. Not like a hawk, but like an examiner, trying to pinpoint what's making him move as he is.

She knows Jon and Sansa well enough to know that the both of them will find forgiveness in their hearts for him. Once more, if need be. Theon will see.]

Ramsay asked me why I cared, now. What you did to deserve it. What I wanted from you.

[That Ramsay asked that last part was proof enough that he'd never understand.]

[ For a moment, a brief and terrifying moment, his mind blanks. He slips back into that dark and terrifying place where the remnants of Ramsay’s hold over him still linger. Surely Lord Ramsay only means to protect you, those fragments try to persuade. Only wants what’s best. Theon goes rigid, and that look of terror comes over him once more. ]

What do you want from me?

[ Even his voice takes on that tone again, the suspicious, frightened tone of a man who’s been broken far too many times. But then he blinks, he shakes his head and pulls himself out of the dark.Nothing. She wants nothing from him. Not everyone has to want something from him. ]

I—I know you don’t want anything from me. I’m sorry. I know.

[ He looks shaken. He doesn’t want to slip back into that place. He may never find his way out again. He may forget his name. He closes his eyes and presses a fist to his chest, trying to calm his breathing and focus on the things that are real. ]

It’s too easy to forget. He made it too easy.

[As much as she feels a pang of remorse for making him slip like that, it's interesting to see. Just like that, and he's not really Theon, but whoever Ramsay made him. But it's better to see that he can snap himself out of it. Her own look of fear calms, and she smiles. A hesitant smile, but it's there.]

It's all right, Theon. You do know. [And maybe part of the reason she's been so determined to stay by his side now is to make sure of it. She is there. Not Ramsay. She's something real, reliable, and not out to hurt him. She won't steer him wrong. All she cares about is his well-being, and it's simply because.] That is something he'll never be able to grasp. And see? You brought yourself back.

[She doesn't want to imagine what he was like while kept by Ramsay. He took his name, he said. So who was he? She's already seen too much of it.]

You're still Theon. Theon, wearing Robb Stark's gloves. Theon, with his Claire at his side.

[A Claire that's feeling more and more like she'll have to orchestrate a murder to keep this young man safe.]

[ It’s strange to experience, and he’s clearly unnerved by the experience of sliding so far backwards, even for such a brief moment.

Reek is someone Theon was forced to become, and he obliged to an extreme in order to avoid more pain. Remember your name, your new name. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak. Behave the way he wants you to behave, and he’s less likely to hurt you. Everyone is less likely to hurt you. That was the way this thoughts went beneath the Dreadfort.

In a way, Theon has traded in one coping mechanism for another. He doesn’t smile so much anymore—and how can he? He doesn’t laugh or make cutting remarks, except in his thoughts. But when a situation arises in which he could be hurt or threatened, he feels himself being pulled back into that dark place, and he slips far too easily back into the role of Reek.

He feels sick, but he tries to focus on what Claire is saying rather than the churning of his stomach. His name. Theon, not Reek. He tries to focus on the feeling of the familiar leather gloves and the knowledge that they belonged to someone important to him, someone who was honorable enough to have never wanted things to carry this far out of hand. With a shaky breath, he nods. ]

I’m still Theon.

[ There’s still no power in his voice, but he’s actually looking at her now. ]

I’m sorry. I wasn't--I couldn't be Theon. Not then. Not when I was kept by Lord Ramsay. I had to be someone else. He didn't like when I forgot.

[With him looking at her, she makes a decision and slowly reaches out to put a hand on his arm. To stop him from walking, because he needs to have his full attention on her, not on hobbling onwards.]

You did what you had to do to survive, Theon. Never apologize for that. [Something like that leaves a mark. It's not a mark that will go away easily, if ever. Claire speaks softer, slower, but with absolute certainty.]

You are incredibly brave, Theon. Incredibly strong. I told you that here you had the opportunity to figure out who you want to be. Start over. [He hadn't, not really. It just seemed to confuse him more. Not that it matters now.] Well, now you know who you don't want to be. And I believe you won't ever lose yourself again, Theon. You have me. You have Jon, and Sansa, even if you may not believe it. You can come home whenever you want. Ramsay didn't take that away.

[She's not going to drag him out of the place he shares with Max, or argue he come live with her and Sansa and Jamie, but she will remind him the offer is on the table.]

I want you there. But... you're strong, and brave, and I know that when I go back you'll be all right.

[He's managed this long. She's never going to step away entirely, but Max did have a point--she can't coddle him forever. She'll always see to his injuries and try to make him more comfortable, but she can't suffocate him. That's not helping the poor boy.]

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