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The sea is not particularly wild today, yet Theon always feels impressed by its force. Waves break over rocks, rhythmic and relentless, foam sprays. A dark coat of water spreads over grey sand, retreats, swells again.
Back in Winterfell, the hot springs were calm and dark, a man could glide into the pools and be embraced by the warm water-no danger, no surprises. On Pyke's shores, though, the rocks are slippery and sharp, the sea angrily pushes this way and that, will pull someone's ankles from under their weight, will push against a chest and topple you over. If you're weak and bad at walking, that is, like Theon is.
Theon doesn't mind, though. Doesn't mind the scrapes and bruises from whenever he loses his balance and bangs against the stones. Once, a wave caught him and rolled him against the sandy floor, pressed down until he wasn't sure he would be able to get back up again. Theon had felt slightly more alive when he had crawled back onto dry sand, white hair tangled and dripping, laughing.
Nuncle Aeron understands all this perfectly, it turns out, and that's why when he's in that kind of mood, the mood where he wouldn't mind cracking his head against a rock to never wake up, wouldn't mind the sea dragging him down until he drowned, it is Nuncle Aeron that Theon tolerates the best.
In the very early hours of morning, Aeron sits at one of his customary places, tattered sealskin robes damp from his morning prayers, ropy hair long enough to curl up on the sandy floor, stirring his little pot of seaweed soup.
He looks up towards Theon's approaching steps, silent and unsmiling.
Aeron doesn't preach any more, doesn't speak much at all any more, except rarely, and about mundane necessities.
He came back from his ordeal under Euron bony and voiceless, dark hair turned grey, scars twisting around his forearms and ankles where the ropes burned through the flesh. His faith remained unbroken, though, his living unchanged: Aeron wakes, fasts, communes with the god until his skin turns blue. He sleeps on wet sand, eats only what the sea offers: Seaweed, the occasional stranded fish. He commands the respect of his order. Men bring their children to him for drowning. If anything, he came back more devout than ever. But he doesn't preach.
Theon sits down next to him, carefully arranges his furs against the wind. No tattered sealskin robes for him. Asha had invited him to choose whatever he'd like from their late lord father's closet, when they came back with nothing but the rags on their back. Theon had gone through the spare unkingly chests and the ugly musty skins and decided none of that would do, though he did keep one dramatic flared cape shaped like a kraken-- he couldn't imagine when Lord Balon would ever have worn something this ostentatious. In the meanwhile, Theon made do with what he could loan from the Lady Alannys and Harlaw Tower, though the warm wools he is wearing today were made for him especially.
None of this is important, but looking ragged won't help any either, and if Theon's supposed to not only live but live as Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon Greyjoy, brother to Asha Greyjoy, then he better get to wear some nice warm wools for his efforts.
He better get to sleep in a soft bed, too, get served good soup and stew cooked soft especially for him--or so you'd think, for here's where the trouble with these luxuries starts: Theon can't seem to endure the bed, nor the food, nor even the bath and the clothes often enough, though this is where he arranges his priorities: He might not sleep for days but he will scrub his skin clean of every last speck of dirt.
Anyway, this has been a string of bad nights in a row.
Aeron doesn't look like he sleeps much either, doesn't look like he cares about Theon's sleeping, doesn't look like he considers sleep much necessary. He silently offers Theon some seaweed soup, Theon silently refuses.
Then they sit, quietly staring at the sea.
Maybe Aeron senses Theon's restlessness, or maybe it is just the time he deems right to end his own rest, but he stands, somewhat imperiously, then starts on a walk along the shore. Theon follows.
They walk parallel to the waterfront over sand and rock, a terrain often slippery and arduous. Aeron doesn't hold out an arm to Theon like Asha would, or Tris, or Jeyne. He doesn't slow down either, though he doesn't walk as briskly as he otherwise might. They wander down the length of the beach, sometimes knee deep in water, until the very end, until there is no going further except for those willing to scale the cliffs. Theon is already covered with a thin sheen of sweat at this point, the wind hungrily tugs at his back. Aeron takes a narrow path towards the side of the cliffs and starts ascending. Theon follows. He stumbles and falls more than once, and Aeron doesn't help him up.
What's relaxing about Aeron's mindset is it is brutal to the point of nearly being kind again. Aeron believes the world is harsh and merciless and made to grind the weak into dust. Aeron believes to live is to struggle and to suffer in pain only to rise again. No word is ever said about rising again gracefully, or looking good, or being in possession of all your fingers, or working feet.
Under Aeron's pitiless gaze, Theon doesn't feel particularly infirm, though he does feel weak and fragile, but only in the way every human is weak against the god's might, in the way every flesh is fragile against the tides, yet keeps on breathing until it breathes no more.
It is near midday when they reach destination and the exertion served to lessen Theon's desire to have someone beat him up, helped to turn memories of shit-encrusted wounds somewhat more translucent, just a bit further away, though Theon fears that if they stop now, it will all roar up again. He could ask Aeron to drown him until he loses consciousness, but Aeron worked towards a better idea:
They are standing at the top of the cliff. Theon remembers it, vaguely, from childhood's times, three universes ago: They used to take a run, then jump, hooting. Aeron removes his sealskins, stands in his loincloth at the cliff's side, looks at Theon not exactly expectantly, more like Theon could take it or leave it, but should take it. Theon can feel half a smile tug at his lips.
Undressing in front of Nuncle Aeron is weirdly comfortable: Aeron doesn't care about his scars, doesn't care about his sunken flanks. The drowned god, when represented, is a pale twisted thing with broken limbs and seaweed hair. And this is just flesh.
They take a running start, then plunge.
The drop lasts only a blink yet stretches forever, then time snaps shut as Theon hits the icy water.
He sinks, struggles to the surface, breathless, exhilarated. Aeron's hair spreads out like a fan. The waves bob them up and down, salt stings his eyes and covers his lips. Theon feels his heart beating against his ribs, and for a moment, everything else is forgotten.
They will swim all the way around the cliffs, further than Theon really has the strength to, then climb their way back up, covered only in their loincloths, in spite of the chilly winds and Theon's already shaking limbs, and Asha would scold him for it, and Tris would look at him with fear and concern, for they don't want him to die, and they don't want him to fall sick, and they don't like him hurting himself. Aeron doesn't fear him dying because if Theon was to die, it would simply mean he didn't have the strength to live; a morally neutral observation: All men eventually lack the strength to live, and then they die.
When they are back at their starting point, near Aeron's little cave, Theon stumbles more than he walks. His limbs hurt. He sports new bruises. They will be waiting for him, Asha and the others, they will have need of him. It is known that Theon must wander, though, when he gets like this, and it is good of Nuncle Aeron to be here for it.
Theon finds the appetite to eat some of Aeron's seaweed soup -- it tastes disgusting -- then spreads out into the sand and lets himself be warmed by the afternoon sun, exhausted, but content.