nysalogs | Semi-closed

[ Theon once thought to himself that if he had a tail, Ramsay would have cut it off. That much hasn’t changed. He’s hyperaware of Ramsay’s anger and he thinks he knows the man well enough to understand why. He knows from Jon’s memory that he isn’t the same man who this Ramsay tortured and maimed. It must be offensive somehow, or it must confuse him. It confuses Theon as well, but he has to accept it. ]

My lord. I’m sorry.

[ He corrects his mistake softly, wishing he could rip himself apart. He doesn’t want revenge or to see Ramsay suffer in the same manner he has. He just desperately wants him to leave, leave before Reek takes root too deeply into the forefront of his mind once more. ]

They were wrong to blame you for my disappearance...my lord.

[ They were right to blame you, he dares to think. It would have been your doing on any other day. ]

Quite right, Reek. Besides. It's not like any of this is my work. [He turns to the man at last, studying him and how he's cowering.

Hm. He reaches out to run a hand through the man's hair, as confidently as he would to run a hand through the fur of any of his dogs.] You're a fucking sight now. What kind of maniac would want you for a servant like this?

[ He wants to bash his own head against the wall and be done with it, but he knows Ramsay will find some way to further his suffering. If he couldn’t always find a way, Theon would have taken the easy way out a long time ago. Instead, he just holds his breath and tries not to scream:

Don’t touch me, don’t call me that, I’m not him, I’ve never been him. I’m Theon. ]

I—

[ It’s a trick question, he warns himself before he can speak another word. He wants you to make a mistake. He wants you to say the wrong thing. ]

I s-said terrible things. Did terrible things. I was only punished for my insolence.

[ He closes his eyes tightly, trying to stave his trembling. He can’t keep doing this forever. Someday, he’ll cease to be himself entirely all over again. ]

It was well deserved.

[It's tempting to try to pull the offensive hair out, and for a heartbeat he gathers a fistful of it, holding it firmly in his hands as he considers it.

But Reek is putting all the blame on himself, trembling like he shake those bones out of his translucent skin. He's trying to do what he thinks will make Ramsay pleased. That, in the end, decides it.

He releases the grip he has, turning his hand to smooth the hair with a steady, confident hand. You might be terrified, the gestures indicates, but I know what I'm doing. I've got it all under control.]

I'm sure some of it was was your fault, Reek. But I saw that man in your memories. I saw him flay those boys. [That sets a tremor of revulsion running through him. He still struggles to accept what he saw, struggles to think of that Other Ramsay. But he can't let it get in the way of bringing Reek to his side.]

[ Theon expects it. He tenses and tells himself that he’s felt worse pain than pulled hair, but no pain follows. Ramsay only smooths his hair back into place. It’s a sickeningly familiar gesture that does little to comfort him.

When Ramsay speaks again, Theon doesn’t know how to respond. Experience tells him to tread carefully around Ramsay when he’s angry. Previous experiences have lost him fingers and teeth and plenty of scars. Although Ramsay speaks carefully, something in his eyes says that he’s absolutely livid.

He doesn’t like the idea of two of him any more than I do. ]

Yes. I…remember, my Lord.

[ It’s a cautious response. Ramsay never liked when Theon began to remember who he was, so those memories were locked away and thought of the experiences of another man entirely, but this Ramsay is encouraging it, and Theon has no other response for him. His confusion is plain, though. Where is this going? ]

But—it wasn’t him who killed them.

[ Is that what he wants to hear? Theon isn’t sure. It's so difficult to think when he's so terrified. He doesn't know how he did this for so long. ]

But he broke your fucking teeth, didn't he? [Casual as anything, he smooths his hand around the side of his face to hold his chin - expecting Reek to open his mouth so the teeth can be checked. It's not unlike how he'd inspect a new horse.

His hand applies gentle pressure, his words are just as gently as he says:] Let me see, Reek.

Edited 2018-05-16 11:09 (UTC)

[ Theon hates those teeth most of all. Scars can be hidden beneath clothes, missing fingers and toes can be hidden in gloves and boots, and white hair never hurt anyone, but there’s no avoiding those teeth. They’re painful and they leave him unable to eat without inconvenience, but it’s true: they were Ramsay’s doing. He hated Theon’s smile, so he took it from him.

He nods weakly, intending to respond that he’d deserved it, but he’s too frightened that he might do something rash if he tries to speak with Ramsay’s hand in such close proximity. He’s bitten Ramsay before. He did and said a lot of things early on when there was still some fight left in him, but he knows now how dangerous that is. He does the smart thing instead and silently complies, opening his mouth to show nothing but a mess of shattered teeth. ]

[Ramsay sighs and tuts in something that might approximate compassion, if it weren't for the surgical way his finger checks the teeth.

There's a danger that Reek might bite him, which he's sure the man is aware of-- but he ignores it. He has the power here. He's the one who does the hurting. This might not be the Reek he made, but Reek should fucking understand how things are.

Moments later, he retries his fingers and wipes them clean on Reek's shirt.] What a fucking mess.

[Doing so leads him to notice Reek's attire. He gives it a long pointed look, then brings his gaze up to the man.

As though asking a child:] What are you wearing, Reek?

[ Theon understands too well, though part of him wishes he still had the guts to bite anyway. Those teeth may pain him, but they’re jagged and sharp and for a brief and dangerous moment, he risks thinking about what kind of damage they could do if he dared to bite down.

It’s a thought that’s gone as quickly as it comes, though. Fear seizes him again. His clothing would always be to Ramsay’s misliking. He has a wardrobe full of clothes that Theon Greyjoy would wear, but Reek never would. The trouble is, none of it fits the frame of a half-starved man. It was Claire who bought him new clothing, along with Robb Stark’s gloves. ]

This was all I had, my lord.

[ He knows it’s an unacceptable answer, and he lowers his gaze, hoping it will be enough. He can’t be expected to own everything from Westeros. Surely Ramsay is wise enough to know this as well. ]

I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking clearly.

[It's not acceptable, but there'll be time to punish him for that later. Ramsay picks at the offensive shirt as it hangs off the man's frame.]

Then we'd better go get you something fitting, hadn't we, Reek? Can't have you walking about like this. You might get mistaken for someone important. [There's laughter in his voice as he suggests that.]

[ Gods, no. Please. Not again. I'm not him, don't touch me, please.

He turns his head away, afraid that if he meets Ramsay’s gaze again, he might see Theon Greyjoy still dwelling behind his eyes, still angry and fighting back to urge to spit out the words “bastard” or “Snow”.

Luckily, fear and exhaustion keeps all of that at bay. He won’t be losing another finger today. ]

No. I’m—I know I’m no one, my lord.

[ His voice is too small. The laughter in Ramsay’s voice makes him feel sick, and he wishes he’d never come. Was Jeyne Poole really worth all of this? ]

May I please keep the gloves? I have none but these.

[ That’s a lie. He has plenty, and they're all much nicer than Robb's, but he’d broken down into tears over these stupid gloves and he’s not going to let them go so easily. He doesn't even have all of his fingers to make the gloves of proper use, but it's important to him. ]

[A huff of laughter escapes him, well aware that Reek hasn't all the fingers to fill the gloves.]

Come along, Reek. [He's not going to bother answering that request. Perhaps after the man's begged for them a little more he'll allow it. Turning on his heel, he sets off through the rows of pods towards the exit.]

[ He clenches his fists tightly when Ramsay’s back is turned. He’s angry, both with himself and with Ramsay and with the fact that his request wasn't answered at all, but he’ll do nothing about it. He’s just going to continue to follow Ramsay as though they never left Winterfell. That’s the safe thing to do. That’s what will leave him unharmed.

Theon, he reminds himself as he struggles to his feet. You are still Theon. You only need to pretend not to be for a time. You were born on the Iron Islands. You have a sister and two dead brothers. Don’t let him fool you again.

His pace is slowed by a limp, and though he does his best, he can’t fall into step with Ramsay. ]

Where are we going?

[ He’s just so tired. We can't all have your energy, Ramsay. ]

[And what energy Ramsay has.

No sooner has Reek closed his mouth than Ramsay rounds on him, knife drawn from his belt and a scowl replacing the amused expression he'd had on only moments ago.]

Where are we going- my lord.

[Ramsay's decided he likes this place. The pods provide so many walls for him to back people against.]

[ Theon, on the other hand, has decided he hates this place. He used to take some solace in his silent, one-sided arguments with Asha, or in glaring at a Robb who couldn’t return the favor. He misses them, but he does not miss being Reek.

He knows this game well enough. The knife comes out, he feels that horrible stab of fear, and he immediately scrambles to flatten himself against the wall like a cornered animal. ]

My lord.

[ He mumbles, beginning to shake again. He’s too good at being Reek, and that scares him just as much as the blade of Ramsay’s knife, but the details are important. Details are what keep him from getting hurt. More “my lord”s, and Ramsay will be happier. ]

I’m sorry, my lord. I—I misspoke. I spoke too rashly. Please…

[ He eyes the knife, shrinking away further. He would be relieved to be put out of his misery, but Ramsay doesn’t kill. Ramsay only hurts. ]

[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.

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